Too Similar, Not the Same
by Shadowed Voices
Summary: It's different this time. The knife in his hand, his brother held at gunpoint, his sister in full control of her strength. Different men with different faces, but it's all the same. Dead parents and a knife in his hand and blood. So much blood. He thought he left the blood behind. Reincarnation AU
1. Not the Beginning

Not the Beginning

Summer heat oozes into everything by the time it hits August. Not even the night remain unaffected, turning muggy, sticky with a damp that refuses to cool anything down. Houses are left open in hope that maybe something resembling a breeze might grace the inside occupants. Windows up and curtains wide, it's easy to tell which neighborhoods are awake. It's the perfect environment for nefarious night dwellers like raccoons, burglars, and, on this particular occasion, a band of kidnappers looking to make a quick couple of hundred thousand bucks. Even if the parents can't pay ransom, kids sell for a lot these days.

Jeremy breathes a low chuckle and earns a sharp jab to the kidney from his supposed partner. "_Shushit_," the other man hisses. He looms aggressively over Jeremy's slighter form. "You'll wake the dog."

Ah, yes. The dog. They've been watching this neighborhood for days, lurking about as repairmen or some such. Mostly that was Baker's job. He looks the working class type, unlike Jeremy. 104 Cypress seemed the best target, according to the bulky man. Father was a doctor of some type so that obviously paid well. Mother stayed at home, gave private piano lessons. Their kid, a boy, is the youngest within three blocks of the place. He's maybe seven or eight. Small, easy to carry and stuff into unobtrusive baggage. Or trunks. It won't take much to keep him drugged either, which means less waste of the merchandise.

More of a chance for accidental overdose, Jeremy felt the need to point out. That only earned him a punch to the gut. _Partners. Right._

The only problem with the place is the dog. She's a pretty thing. All sleek black fur and attentive, forward-pricked ears. Some sort of doberman cross, Jeremy thinks. She's great with the kid. So great, in fact, that the mother feels comfortable enough to let the boy wander around the neighborhood alone, so long as the dog is with him. And it's not like they've lived around here all that long. There are still boxes laying around unpacked and calls to have cable transferred. But that dog - she growls at anyone who takes too much of an interest in the boy, always standing protectively near him and herding him away from the street when it sounds like a car's coming. Such a shame they'll have to kill her. She sleeps in the boy's room, on his bed.

Jeremy does not fancy those teeth coming anywhere near his person. At all. Thus, a triple dose of Trapanal nicked from the local vet's office should be enough to put her out for good. Luckily for him, Baker's cousin has a dart gun or something similar. The girl's a freak about those things. Said she'd let Baker use it for a cut of the ransom. So it is Baker's job to shoot the dog. That's great news for Jeremy. She really is a lovely dog.

"_Fuck's_ hot out here," Baker growls, apparently ignoring his own warning. Jeremy retaliates with an elbow to the spleen. Payback. Because they are partners, supposedly, and partners share.

"Then get on with it," he grumbles back.

They figured out earlier in the week how to scale the side of the building without making much noise. There are, unfortunately, no convenient trees stationed outside the kid's window, but the awning for the porch stretches out just a foot short. It's easy enough for Baker to climb up the ladder and stealth-walk over the opening. Then it is only a matter of leaning over far enough without falling to access with window.

A slight pop signals the gun firing. From the ground, Jeremy can hear the dog's startled yelp as she wakes from what was probably a dead sleep. The drug works fast though. The thunk of her hitting the floor again is audible and has the unfortunate side effect of waking the kid. _Fuck._

"Anka?" the kid slurs. Baker curses quietly and ducks back onto the awning. He tucks the gun away and motions frantically for the dumbshit on the ground to get his ass up the ladder. Like hell if he can fit in that whole. 'sides, it'd be hard as hell getting that brat through the window without help. He'd probably drop the stupid thing and there goes a fuckload of cash. "Anka, wha's wrng? Anka?"

The dumbshit scrambles up the ladder quiet-like. If he wasn't, Baker might have had to push him off. Fall wouldn't kill him. Probably.

"Brat's awake," Baker mutters under his breath. The light clicks on. "_Shit!_"

"Who's there?"

The kid sounds...surprisingly awake and put together. Angry, not scared. Determined, not about to run for mommy and daddy. That sort of tone should never come from a kid's mouth, not ever, and Jeremy feels the niggling urge to call the whole thing a bust and scram. But Baker has a thick hand locked around the scruff of his neck. "_Gettin there_!" he demands roughly, and Jeremy is shoved forward.

That's right. He's in charge of this part. He has a syringe filled with a mix of saline and Trapanal. There's not enough of the drug in there to kill the kid, he hopes, just enough to knock him out for a while. It would have been so much easier if the boy was asleep though. Too much noise and the parents will wake. After that it's the police and jail and a whole bunch less money to spend.

"Anka, come on _wake up_!"

Jeremy takes the chance and slithers though the window, landing with a hushed thump on the carpet. He keeps his feet and the syringe, blinking at the light. The boy is crouched over the dog, the hopefully dead dog, his hand around her collar. Turquoise eyes glare menacingly out from beneath a mop of sleep tousled brown hair. His childish face is frozen in a snarl, teeth bared like an animal. Jeremy takes three steps forward.

Baker pops his head and the gun in through the window. "Scream and you're dead brat," he growls aiming the empty gun at at kid. Not that the kid will know it's empty. Baker's cousin, aside from being a gun freak, is stingy as fuck. She only gave them one round for the stupid thing. Useless, but at least the dog's out.

The kid glares, nearly growling, but he stays silent as Jeremy walks up to him. The syringe gets a wary look. Turquoise eyes trace its path through the air, each second bring it closer to hit arm. "That's not gunna kill me, right?" the kid asks. He's frowning at Jeremy now, one hand raised slightly towards his own face.

Jeremy finds that to be an odd motion. The hand isn't raised against him or to protect the kid, just sort of hovering between the two. "Probably not," he answers with a shrug. Then he touches the boy, pulling up his shirt sleeve. The kid's skin is burning hot, waves of heat flowing from him like invisible steam. "Damn kid! You sick or something?" The needle goes in easy. The solution follows

His words earn a sarcastic, cocky smirk that shouldn't belong on such a young child. "Or smthin'," the kid slurs and slumps sideways. He must be lighter than they thought. Hopefully the dose won't kill him. Jeremy passes the kid to Baker, places the note, and flicks off the lights.

They're off.


	2. Wrong

Wrong

He's being swallowed. Isn't that interesting? Everything moves in slow motion as he sticks to the titans tongue, blood slick, lifted high in the air by too-large fingers pinching his gear. Putrid breath, each gigantic exhale a morgue of stench without the chemical cleaner. Rotting bodies and stomach acid. Or, what amounts to stomach acid. Because titans don't actually digest their food. Food. Humans. He's being swallowed.

There's a buzzing in his ears. It was screaming. The terror of his comrades, of his classmates and squad. Shrieks of terror and pain and horror. Each of them snatched out of the air, slammed into walls. Broken bones and blood flying. Civilians smeared like berries across the pavement, limbs the only thing left after a careless titan stepped down. Everything is buzzing like flies in his ears, flies converging on the corpses of the fallen. Meat and bone and blood. Food. They're all food.

The huge face looms up from between the building. Grinning, grinning. Always grinning. It looks like an old man. A grinning old man getting ready for a nameday feast. Gray beard and white teeth - has it eaten anyone else yet? Or does it prefer its food whole? Swallowed down like a snake eats a mouse for the minimum amount of waste. Seems like it'd lessen the flavor. Because if titans can't digest their food, wouldn't it make sense that they're only after the flavor?

He's in its mouth, suffocating. Can't breathe past the cloying, sticking, oozing stench of death and decay. Can't scream. But he is. He inhales air so think it might as well be water and screams, eye wide open but unable to see. He thinks he's crying. He's being swallowed. First day out. No surprise there. So useless he can't protect anyone. His legs slide down the point of no return, useless feet not even touching the opposite side of the titan's throat. He can't even protect himself. Useless, useless, useless!

The hand reaches up and he watches it, unable to move. Unable to do anything more than blink at it like some stupid, dumb animal. He can't quite understand what's happening. His jacket pulls tight around his arm, pulls him up off his knees until he's dangling. He can't move. Can barely take that next breath. He blinks, uncomprehending as he is dangled lifeless over a great, gaping maw, shiny white teeth glittering in the afternoon sunlight.

He's being swallowed. Like a snake swallows a mouse, the tongue with it's viscous saliva working him deeper down the throat. He's going to die here. Or, not here, but boiled alive in what amounts to stomach acid. His hands are already burned from the titan's mouth and the heat radiating off it. It's going to be like the duck at that festival day six years ago. They heated oil and made fried duck, a delicacy. He'd been able to watch, breathless with anticipation, eager for just a nibble. He's going to fall and fry like duck. He's friend duck. Only, instead of being enjoyed and savored, he'll be puked up somewhere like a hairball. He's going to die.

Eren's trapped. Too slow and bleeding. The titan snaps down. He wasn't good enough to save his best friend, couldn't reach out and grab Eren's arm, stretched out and begging for help. Pleading. Eren threw him out of danger. Rescued him. Just like always. He's always being saved by others, a hand reaching out and snagging his wrist in an iron grip. A heave and he's up, sailing back past the teeth and blood sprays his face and clothes. A little drop hit's the corner of his mouth and he screams again. Screams and flails because it's not fair! Why did Eren have to die? Why couldn't it have been him?

Armin screams and screams and screams, his eyes shut and fists pounding against something that is not the slatted wood of the roof. It's soft and burns his hands and knees, but he continues kicking and screaming and out of his mind with pain. Physical pain is nothing to that which sears his chest like fire.

"Armin?" And there's light, the sun blazing on, arm lifting him higher again and he shrieks, clawing and biting. He'll fight this time. No one will die because of him! Not again! "Armin! Baby wake up! It's just a dream, just a scary dream!" He's held tight against someone's chest, but it's no one he knows because he's not that small anymore. He doesn't recognize the scent either. Fake flowers and clean. It smells like lies because nothing is clean. Nothing can be clean. Never again.

Footsteps pounding closer, faster. Heavy breathing. "Mari? What's wrong? Armin?" New arms and he howls, desperate to get away. "What happened?"

"He's having a nightmare. I think. I'm going to call the doctor."

Doctor? Male and female voices, changing hands, why isn't his body listening?! But doctor. Doctors like Eren's father. Doctor Grisha Jeager. The man who experimented on his own son, turned his boy into a monster for science. Eren could barely handle turning into a titan. And Eren is strong, so much stronger than he is. Armin won't be able to survive the shift. Not the pain or the memory loss. Not the chance of killing a teammate or a loved one. He can't handle that.

Blunt nails dig into soft flesh. Small teeth, sharp despite their size, draw blood and curses and a loosened grip. Armin tears himself away from the confinement and land hard on the ground. His eyes are open. He can see. Bleary with exhaustion and tears and adrenaline, but he can see. The monsters reach for him and he runs barefoot from the room. He has to keep running. His body won't cooperate. He's captured again before he can reach the stairs.

They go down the stairs anyway. Thud, thump, thunking down to lower level and out the door into fresh air. But it smells wrong too, like chemicals. Coughs interrupt his squalling howls, and then Armin can only concentrate on learning to breathe again. In and out and in an out. The distraction is enough that the monsters are able to strap him in to something and he screams again.

Time is a strange thing to Armin. He can't support the blind terror indefinitely and it peters out under the rumble of a strange beast. He sinks back into the restraints, exhausted but still protesting. It feels like's he drowning. They move and stop like the waves lapping up on the shore of the river. Ocean waves. Tides. It lulls him with the motion. He has no idea how much time has passed by the they the rumbling growl stops.

Thunks. Clicks. Hushed voices. "Is he asleep again?"

"Maybe. Go on. I'll bring him. I think you need stitches."

"Yeah. Be- be careful, yeah?"

"Go."

Armin's head is fuzzy. He's certain the monsters did something. Maybe they're the military police. That would make sense. Only, the exhaustion allows him to think. Eren is a titan shifter. He didn't die in their first battle. Armin has memories reaching wall Maria. His horse trotting comfortably beneath him, the wall a mass of black against the bright blue of the sky. That was years after their efforts to put Historia on the throne. So why would the military police strike now? And why is he so small?!

He blinks once. Twice. When he opens his eyes again there is a man in white leaning over him with some strange metal contraption.

Armin bites the approaching hand.


	3. Expectations

Expectations

She should have known this would happen. When she woke up and discovered that she was alone, a small child again, she should have realized that history would replay. Should.

She's three when the memories solidify enough to allow to access to the ones that came before she woke up. Not in the past with titans before, but the before of her early childhood. It makes learning the language easier - English. Does it even have any rules? - and means that she can remember the people raising her. Well, raising is a loose definition of the situation. Two teenagers decided that attempting to live on their own with a baby was the best choice. They both work too much for too little pay and Mikasa was often left in the hands of a kindly woman from the slightly less run-down apartment next door.

She starts smiling when 'mommy' comes to pick her up for dinner, cheering and running to the door like she used to. 'Daddy' gets a huge hug and a bubbly grin that makes her face hurt and her heart ache. She doesn't let them see the history books she steals from the local library when her caretaker falls asleep. She doesn't speak common, her first language, and doesn't let them see her writing. She doesn't tell them about the dreams or her memories or Eren and Armin. She doesn't tell them that the 'Titan Fairy Stories' they read her at bedtime are actually warnings and bastardized accounts of what happened.

She does what is expected of her. In public, at least.

At five she starts school and it's too much work to keep up the kiddie attitude all time. She stays quiet in class, only speaking when asked a question, and never plays with the other kids. She does her work quickly and efficiently. After, she does her own research, notes taken in common. Her first language flows far easier from the pen than the bulky Latin alphabet. Not that her work isn't neat, just that it takes longer than she'd like. Her teachers notice. They call home. Her parents are shocked that their darling daughter, precious and beautiful and happy is so withdraw in school.

"That's not like her at all!" her father protests when they are called in for a parent teacher conference.

"Please," her mother begs. "Has something happened? Is she being picked on?"

The teacher has no answers and Mikasa will never betray her real family, wherever they are, by spilling her secrets to some strangers.

They enroll her in dance, but the extra cost means that her parents have to work more. Her mother barely has time to pick her up and drop her at home before she has to leave again. Mikasa smiles and brags about practice like she hears the other girls doing with their parents, but focuses solely on the exercise in class. Her instructor wonders, a little frown on his face, but he leaves her alone. Mostly. She spends more than one practice scowling him down and muttering derogatory things at him in common. She can't quite tell if he understand her or not. There were people in the military police that knew her face and name, even if she didn't know theirs.

But if he's one of them, why would he become a dance instructor? Guilt?

When she's seven, Mikasa firmly informs her mother that she's going to the library after practice. She's walked to the library before on her own and it is half way between home and the dance studio. She can walk herself home. Her mother dithers over it for entirely too long, but eventually gives in. Which is how Mikasa ends up in this situation. The situation where she's not homes after midnight and her parents are.

"Hello darling!" the librarian coos. Mikasa nods at her as she walks in. It is only a brief pause on her way to a bank of computers station on the back wall. "Oh, no darling, I'm sorry," the pigeon woman continues when Mikasa starts to clamber into one of the chairs. She bobs her head, upper body following, in false apology. "But the computers are only for big kids. The children's section is over there." She takes Mikasa's hand in her own, tugging the small girl back up the isle to a brightly colored room right off the main entry. "Here you are dear. Come get me if you need any more help."

Further attempts to access the computers are subdued in much the same manner. It involves lots of bobbing heads and annoying bird noises. Each time Mikasa is herded back into the multicolored monstrosity that is supposed to serve as a reading area. It's almost a shame, she thinks, that she has already gone through what little the library has on the Wall Era.

It's almost too easy to sneak out her window at night. There's not even a screen. She's light enough not to bother the creaky fire escape and remembers enough of her military training that she doesn't get hurt when she leaps to the ground. The maneuver gear really teaches you how to take a fall without breaking anything. Her body is so elastic with youth anyway that she doesn't think it'd hurt much even if she did fall wrong.

She's small and dark and the night swallows her in its shadows. Dance has increased her endurance - not to the levels she is accustomed to, but well enough for such a fragile body. Running comes easily, light steps on cooling pavement. Her soft shoes, worn from overuse and age, make small hissing, skidding noises on the hard ground, a sound not unlike that of rainfall. This is a run she has made at least once a week for nearly six months now. One mile to the library if she follows the roads. If she feels like if she can cut across properties, not the safest plan in this neighborhood, and decrease the distance by half. It involves a lot more fence hopping and lurking though, so it takes almost the same amount of time. She usually runs the mile.

The library used to be a courthouse. It sat abandoned for thirty years before it was renovated. That was a couple of decades ago. Despite the improvements, the building is just as run down and old as the surrounding ones, while also lacking in security measures. Her first night out, Mikasa found a broken lock on one of the ground level windows. It leads to what used to be holding cells, so it isn't that big, but she's small enough to slip through. Landing can be a bit rough. The librarians are always moving things around. Once there were bins of Lego's directly under the window. She had bruises for weeks after landing on those. Just about sprained her wrist too. This time, however, the path is clear.

Excellent.

Nothing is kept locked inside the library. It's simply a matter of shoving the huge wooden door open to grant her access to the main room. Unfortunately, the door is solid oak and heavier than it needs to be. The hinges also suck and are in desperate need of a good oiling, but it's not like the girl can complain to the people in charge. "Hello. Yes. I'm having problems breaking into your building because the hinges on this obscenely heavy door are rusted solid. If you could take care of that? Thanks." Yeah, that's never going to happen.

Mikasa crawls into the chair in front of one of the computers. It hums to life like some ancient cat stretching out after a long nap. The monitor flickers on in fits, finally buzzing into some sort of clarity. She huffs, impatient, and clicked for the internet. Her fingers dig grooves into the soft wood of the desk. It connects.

"Finally," she mutters. She has to wait for google to load, but when it does, she speeds though her most common search.

Eren Jeager

**Searching - Results**

She scans through the first three pages as if they might display something new. They don't

Armin Arlet

**Searching - Results**

Again, no matches. It's frustrating even after all this time that she cannot find anything on her brothers. Have they been born yet? Were they even reborn at all? Eren, at least, had to be. That boy revels an breaking the rules, and what greater rule is there to break that being reborn? The kid couldn't even stay dead when he was eaten by a titan. Growling a bit, she tries her main search for the night. She can't spend too long here, after all.

Hange Zoe + science

**Searching - Results**

The page practically explodes with information. Link after link, Commander Zoe's name pops up. Medical journals. Forensic research. Psychology. Wall facts. Wall myths. Titan research. Histories. Common alphabet, phonetics, syntax, grammar - The computer beeps. The screen blanks, A small red box appears

**Classified information  
****This computer has been tagged**

Well shit. She shuts it down as fast as she can, completely cutting the power. It'll be a race, she knows, to leave the scene without attracting attention. Everyone has heard about the response time against Wall Seekers. It takes just minutes before the entire area is swarming with officials in suits. Everyone inthe area is marked as a potential threat to security.

Mikasa doesn't bother being subtle this time. With the knowledge that there are others like her out there - if Commander Zoe is back then Eren and Armin have to be - her mind settles and her body tightens. She lashes out a foot, connecting with the front doors and sending them flying open, lock shattered. Her breath comes heavy as she tears down the street towards home, chest heaving, moving as fast as she can. Already she can hear the grumble of cars in the not-so-far distance.

She makes the mile in record time. Unthinking, she bounces off a dumpster and grabs fire escape ladder with her fingertips. She's hardly heavy enough to make it groan and the rusted metal doesn't even shift as she heaves herself up. It is only when she reaches her window three floors up that she catches the too familiar copper tang of blood.

She should have known this would happen again.


	4. Poison

Poison

Chapter Text

Eren's first memory is of his death.

He wakes up when his body is about three. Only, he isn't waking up because he wasn't asleep. He recalls running through a sprinkler with his mom - not his actual mom, mind, but the woman who birthed this body and that boy - when he slips. They're on grass, muddy grass, so it doesn't hurt the little body, be Eren remembers all too clearly how his body hit the ground after being shot. A direct hit to the chest with one of the smaller titan weapons. In his titan for, he wouldn't have noticed the damage before it healed. Human, however, his chest was caved in, a gaping, bleeding hole where bone and flesh should have been. Steam poured from the wound but it wasn't enough and he died to the sight of Mikasa filleting his murderer with her swords. He wakes up with the wind knocked from his lungs, balanced on tiny hand and knees on fresh green grass that isn't soaked with his blood.

It's not half as bad as those first few times he woke after a shift, but still. Jarring. Terrifying. He might spend then next several weeks in a catatonic haze. At the end he has all of his old memories back and an impressive list of doctors that know his name.

Eren Jaeger. Son of Grisha and Kalura Jaeger. It's the same in this time as the last. Only, despite Grisha being a doctor, this man and his... father are near opposites. Previously concerned with his work, family coming second, this Grisha spends as much time as possible at home. He works long shifts at a local hospital and comes back wary and worn, but excited to see his wife and child again.

Eren feels sorta bad about avoiding him after regaining his memories. He just can't stand to be alone with the man, the man who shares the name of that bastard from his original time. That has nothing on the stomach heaving sick that he feels whenever he sees he mother smiling and giving music lessons. He watched her get ripped in half by that grotesque, always grinning beast. That scene haunted his sleeping hours until the fresh horror of watching Levi's squad get shredded overshot it, nearly six years later. Even still, it popped up like Bertolt at the gates. One kick and in flooded the memories.

His parents don't understand. He doesn't expect them to. Not really. Not when he can't stand to look at them. He knows that before the fall he was just a happy little boy and after - after he's still a little boy on the outside, but his memories are of fighting a war. A war against titans and humans and the thing that dared call itself his father. By the time he was ten, Eren knew blood and death like the back of his hand. He'd killed, fought, and been helpless to save his own mother.

Memories like that, the thoughts and actions that accompany them, do not belong in a three year old.

When his fourth birthday finally swings around, the list of doctors he has visited is ridiculous. Psychologists. Psychiatrists. Neurologists. Physiologists. A physicist, once, but that was more of an accident than anything else. Doctor after doctor after doctor and no one can give his parents a definite answer. One suggests a pet, so his parents buy him a little black ball of fur. A puppy. Eren names her Anka. Her name was the first word he has said in close to four months. When that doesn't work, another suggests more social interaction with his peer group would help, but, well.

Eren's temper was shit when he was older (older in the past, as opposed to now, more than a thousand years later, when he's younger. Seriously? What is his life? First titan shifting, now this?) and now that he's a kid again with limbs that don't work right and a whole new language to learn and names to remember and all the fucking brats at the daycare his parents send him to - it's all too much. The first day in, some boy who looks like Connie knocks over the block castle he's building - it is supposed to be the survey corp headquarter, but the proportions are wrong - and he snaps. The kid is on the ground before either of them realize what's happening, his face bloody and screaming like he's being murdered. Eren is screaming at him in common when he comes back to himself, flying fists stilled under the weight of what he has just done because ohshit this is a civilian kid! and he feels like puking.

His parent frantically withdraw him from the program and they're off to see a whole new raft of doctors.

Yay. Doctors.

He hears rumors at one hospital of another boy with similar problems. He's unpredictably violent, has screaming night terrors, has problems speaking and understanding English, and doesn't seem to recognize his own parents. Refuses, more like. Eren's parents shudder, glad that their son apparently got off easy with whatever this is, and are firm in their denial when Eren asks to meet the other kid.

Eren knows things aren't going to work out at school when he starts a year later. He's been careful to hold his temper in check, to mark out all the entrances and exits and places to hide before the first hours is up. During nap he sits still on his cot and focuses on the breathing exercises Levi taught him. Four in, hold, four out. Every out of place noise makes his twitch though. His blood pumps faster, heating his skin as the steam rises in defense. Preemptive healing.

The teachers frown at his behavior. It's unusual to the extreme that a five-year-old will opt for, or even know, meditation when he could be messing around. It's not like Eren is the best behaved kid in class. He twitches and shifts in his seat constantly during any quiet working time. He can't seem to play attention at story time, unless it's a story about the Wall or titans. Then he's still, unnaturally so, soaking up the child-rated information that everyone knows by this point. And his art - his art is disturbing. His teacher is almost scared to give the boy something more refined than crayons by the end of the first week. Page upon page of red and brown, bloodied rust stains and dismembered corpses. Shadows and gunpowder, cannon blasts that can almost be heard as the scene expands from one page to the next. He a good artist, that's to be certain, but it's almost like the art matters less than putting it on paper.

"Well class," the teacher chirps at the start of the second week. "I thought that before we start writing practice we could do a little coloring instead. How does that sound?" There is a cheer from the kids. Eren looks up, slightly apprehensive. He's always a little apprehensive when the teacher changes the schedule. "I want you to draw a picture about what you dreamed last night."

Eren slumps back in his chair. That isn't something he's thought about before. He thought, when the nightmares didn't resurface with the memories, that everything was fine. He's been able to sleep properly for the first time since Wall Maria fell. The paper in front of him sneers back, mocking. Blank and white and pristine. It holds silence under the heavy chatter and clatter from the other kids, white teeth grinning.

"What wrong, Eren?"

And the answer slithers its poisonous, condemning way from between his lips. "I don't dream."


	5. Call

Call

"- and the WCR needs all of the information, Agent Ackerman! It is of vital importance to several of our ongoing investigations!"

She's screeching again, Erwin notes absently. He scribbles his signature across yet another official document. Usually the office is filled with the quiet ramblings of his team as they work on filing cases, occasionally disrupted Oluo Bozado breaking in to some bragging rant.

They found each other by accident, Erwin and Levi that is. The rest were picked up through more devious means. Erwin was, once again, the son of a teacher. The man taught elementary school. Erwin avoided his class applying for and earning a scholarship to an upstate private school. From there it was college and, much to the surprise of everyone who knew him, the police academy.

"Even now," he reasoned to the shocked faces of his friends and family, "there is too much corruption among those who are supposed to keep us safe."

The statement baffled everyone. "Even now?" the questioned, but he waved them away.

His first time out by himself, just a patrol, he literally ran Levi down with his cruiser. They still find it amusing that he didn't get fired for that. Honestly, Erwin wouldn't have cared if they had fired him. He found Levi. Levi, who remembered and was still the same sarcastic street rat orphan as before. When his old friend claimed the body he's wearing was sixteen, Erwin accepted the truth for what it was - blurry, inaccurate - and drove the kid? - trying to find the correct descriptor was awkward as hell until Levi grew up, that's for certain - to his own apartment. When he got home that evening, the place was spotless and Levi had stolen his clothes. Things were finally falling into place.

Getting Levi to attend school was as painful as having his arm bit off, but that;s how they found Erd Jinn. The difference between the two was astounding. It pushed Erwin further down the path of believing that Levi lied about his body's true age so as to not be held back. That didn't matter though. Not really. Erwin knew his subordinate well enough to pick through to the truly important things, like the burning need he felt to find his squad. Erd just fanned that fire.

"I can't believe you! You shredded it? Why would you do that? It was classified information! I needed that! It - it was in my briefcase!"

"It was a complete accident, I assure you."

"You filthy little liar! You did that on purpose - "

Erwin sighs heavily. Every day that liaison struts into his building like she owns the place. She doesn't. FBI barely tolerates WCR on a good day, and his team so rarely has good days when she's around to liaise. Whatever that means. Mostly she slinks around and insults his team, brandishing a paper cup of foul smelling coffee at her victim. Conversational partner. Whatever.

The paperwork is endless. More endless than the forms he filled out in his previous life denoting the death of soldiers. Erwin thinks this might actually be hell. To make it worse, his right arm twinges and goes numb after too long spent working at a desk. It's the same phantom pains he got after his arm was bitten off. Only, now his arm is actually there to hurt.

An inarticulate shriek of rage nearly cracks the window of his office door. It does crack when, seconds later, the door is body-slammed against the wall by a seething, coffee soaked liaison. Erwin smiles politely. Levi saunters up behind her, lips pressed into a satisfied smirk. From between them, Erwin can see down into the main work area where the rest of the team is supposed to be writing reports. Most of them are at least pretending, except for Petra. The blonde is standing stock still in the center of the room, one hand clenched around something metallic looking -

"Agent Ral! Put the knife down."

The blade thunks deeply into Oluo's desk, centimeters from his arm. Petra stalks back to her desk.

Levi might be snickering. Erwin turns back to the liaison with another blank smile. "Can I help you with something, Miss Turner?" he asks cordially despite knowing what she is going to say. No one knows when the eyes are watching.

"I want this child-sized lunatic suspended! Immediately! He and the rest of those so-called agents are neanderthals who can't even follow simple orders! Always messing up and getting in my way when I am the officer in charge here and you are no better! You can't even keep them in line!"

Erwin hums. "Can I get you a towel? Agent Ackerman, please go get Miss Turner a towel." Levi doesn't even leave the room, just drops a hand towel over the liaison's head. She sputters with incomprehensible rage, but any further comments about their incompetence are stalled by the shrill ringing of Erwin's phone. He holds up a hand, just in case, and answers, "Special Agent Erwin Smith, FBI."

No one responds right away. Then, in the background, he can hear someone's, "I'm going to be sick," and then, "Don't puke there! This is a crime scene!" followed by the sounds of heavy retching.

Very inspiring. "Hello?" he asks, just in case the person on the other line didn't hear him the first time. It is easy to become distracted at a crime scene after all.

There is a sharp rustling and, "Yes, Agent Smith, I apologize. You - you said to call if anything out of the ordinary turned up and - fuck - the FBI deals in kidnappings, right? Please say yes."

"Yes. Not my team, specifically, but yes. What happened?"

"I - there's some kids here and - oh god - I can't - you have to take this one, sir, please."

Whoever was sick in the background groans.


	6. Hello Again

Hello Again

_...Historia sits on the throne above all her citizens. People grumble and fuss that she illegitimate and unworthy, but when she doesn't bother their every day lives, the noises ease off. Besides, it's more amusing to gossip about how she refuses to act like a queen. No fancy dresses or extravagant balls. She still wears the military uniform and the harness. She makes a point to out fly the military police on a weekly basis. To the further consternation of the unicorn brigade, Historia's personal name for the military police, Ymir wandered into the inner district some five years after she rescued Reiner and Bertold. She offers no information on what happened during that time, but inserts herself firmly into the position as the queen's personal bodyguard._

_That's what the letters say, at least. _

"Armin! Dinner!"

His mother's call interrupts the the flow of pen on paper, jarring Armin's hand just enough to smear ink across the page. It's a rare time when he can think past the fog of medication long enough to actually remember the past. He tries to write it down whenever he gets the chance. Whatever the idiot doctors say, he's not crazy. His awakening just happened to be fairly violent. He bets they would have panicked a little too if they woke up knowing that their best friend, their brother, had just been eaten by a giant cannibal. Honestly.

He's fine now though. Even if neither the doctors nor his parents want to take him off the medication, Armin knows that he's fine. He has all his memories back and in the correct order, he thinks. It's hard to tell order when the meds blur the timeline, but he thinks he has it all right. He met Eren when he was five, an eight when he met Mikasa. He was ten when the colossal titan broke through Shiganshina's gate. For two years he worked in the landfills for two years with Eren and Mikasa before they were old enough to join the military. At fifteen he discovered that his best friend was a titan shifter. At sixteen, he discovered the other shifters, specifically Annie. For a while after that, the dates get fuzzy again, but shortly after his twenty-sixth birthday, Historia announced the reconstruction of Shinanshina. And a while after that, years (decades? He doesn't quite remember), she announced that they would be opening the Walls.

"Armin!"

"Coming!" He closes the journal, carefully hiding it in behind several books on his bookshelf. The last time his parents found his writings, they messed with his meds. It took him weeks to get used to the new dosage. Now he is careful where he hides the journals and makes doubly certain to only write in common. Not only does English not make any sense, but common apparently looks like incomprehensible scribbles to most English speakers.

"Armin, if you're not down here in ten second - "

"I'm coming!" Huffing, the apparent eight-year-old stomps down their stairs, doing his best to impersonate one of Eren's moods. Eren had perfected sulking by the time he was thirteen. Not even military training could beat it out of him. Not even Levi, not that the man didn't try. Ten hours scrubbing a stone floor with a toothbrush wasn't even enough to stop Eren when he was in a mood. That particular scenario happened at least three times.

The house is very pretty. He's willing to admit that. It's also warmer in the winter than any building within the Walls ever was. Except, maybe, the palace, but Armin never spent much time there, not even to visit Historia. He was a soldier on the front lines against the titans. After so many years of fighting, he didn't have the head for political niceties. Battle strategies, medical knowledge, and numerous ways to kill, yes. Small talk and polite language? Well, he did better than Eren and Levi ever could, but he still made a mess of things. It's the same here. He knows what he should say and how he should say it, but - he can't. He can't force himself to lie and tell these new parents that he loves them when he remembers watching his actual parents wither away in the plague. He can't sit on his grandfather's knee begging for stories when he still feels the pain of watching the man who raised him walk to his death. He can't force himself to be the child that he appears. He's just too tired.

Armin doesn't look up when he enters the dining room. He doesn't look up when he pulls out his chair and climbs up. He doesn't look up until there is a polite knock on the front door.

"I wonder who that could be." His father sounds worried. He's in the kitchen portioning dinner onto three white plates. Armin glaces at him strangely. It's a little easier to think now, as the meds are wearing off, but he still can't summon more than vague disdain towards the man.

His mother starts towards the door. "Probably just some salesman. I'll take care of it." She continues on muttering about inconsiderate people showing up well past visiting hours, honestly it's already dark outside. She opens the door and falls, choking and gasping for air through a gaping throat. She's dead within seconds.

"So sorry," comes a too familiar voice. Armin freezes, panic crashing through his mind before the meds drown it out. "I hope you don't mind my stopping by. See, I have some information on your son. It turns out he's very important."

Even with his senses muddled, Armin knows enough, recognizes enough to duck off the chair and roll under the table. It can't be him. And yet, a quick peak reveals a face Armin isn't likely to forget in any of his lifetimes. Kenny Ackerman. Kenny the Ripper. The man responsible for the bullet in his knee. The only man to ever come close to killing Mikasa. If Levi hadn't stepped in...

"You, get rid of the father. You, go look upstairs for the boy. He's here somewhere."

One set of footsteps goes up the stairs. Another clomps towards the kitchen. Breathing shallow, Armin watches the Ripper's boots, tracking their path into the dining room. He hasn't been spotted yet, thankfully. He just needs - there! The Ripper is past him now, back turned. Armin darts out from under the table, running full tilt towards the front door. He leaps over his mother's body, blood staining bare feet, and he's out. Outside and on the pavement, still running as fast as his small legs can carry him. There is cursing, shouting, the sounds of pursuit. He feels like he's back home running from titans once again. he doesn't look back. That would only slow him down.

He's tackled from behind, pavement skinning his arms and legs, his face catching on a rock and tearing open. "Gotcha."


	7. Not So Clean Adventures

Not So Clean Adventures

Levi wakes up the day in he abandoned. That is fortunate for him; a five-year-old (he assumes. Five might be generous. Five might be very generous) would have a terrible time surviving one the streets. He jerks out of unconsciousness thinking that he is nearing fifty (ish. His age back then was debatable too), only to find himself shit sized and covered in filth like some back alley sewer rat. He thinks the caves under the inner district might be cleaner than this stupid city. To top it off, he's emaciated, bruised, and doesn't understand a fucking word that these people are speaking.

However, he didn't survive the titans for so many years by being an idiot. It takes less than six months to learn the language. Several of the people he used to know would find it hilarious to learn that his first English words were, "Hey you, shitface!" He'd argue that the words were reasonable for the context, but he is not, will never tell anyone about his past. He got enough pity from trainees the last time around and at least then he was an adult. No matter what his mentality, being small and alone always earn pity. Useless emotion.

He sticks to the shadows, stealing food from open stalls and forcing his body to relearn old skills. He finds a new way to fly as maneuver gear technology seems to have disappeared in favor is the metal deathtraps they call cars. Running from rooftop to rooftop, breaching the distance between by jumping without the relative safety of the gear is strangely freeing. Even though he's too small for most of the gaps, he finds a way across.

Not everything goes well. He breaks his arm taking a hard landing from a three story drop one winter. The wall he had attempted to use as a bridge was slick with damp and ice, and he fell. Daylight means civilians see him. Civilians mean an unavoidable trip to the hospital. The building is huge and smells of bleach. Clean. He gives them a fake name and says he's seven. Who knows? He might be. Lying is almost compulsive by now. The doctors set his arm and allow him a shower when the number he gave for his parents turns out to be disconnected. Levi scrubs every inch of bare skin twice. He digs at the ingrained dirt with the soft cloth until his body is red and painful, partially scalded by the near-boiling water. He's clean though. Clean for the first time in at least three years. It feels glorious.

He scrubs his clothes there too. The dirt that washes out is disgusting and he can't believe that he's worn these for so long. He leaves them to dry in the bathroom when he's finished, content to sit naked on the bed for a while. The nurses are, less content with this. They bring him food and clothes from the lost and found, assuring him with false smiles that everything gets washed before it is placed in storage. He grudgingly puts them on - tshirt, underwear, jeans that are a size to two too big, and an over-large hoodie that hangs down around his knees and extends past his fingers by a good seven inches - his skin itching. But, they're dry and warm and probably cleaner than his clothes will ever be.

Levi leaves before child services shows up. A month later he borrows a hacksaw from a local hardware store when the bulky cast becomes too inconvenient. His arm is still fragile, but it holds.

Summer comes with the addition of a gang attempting to move into his territory. He finds this annoying. It isn't like his territory is very large. Levi is a small kid now. He's staked out the three blocks on either side of his abandoned building. There is no reason for the poorly dressed gathering of teenagers and young adults with a penchant for stealing expensive electronics and cars to show up out of nowhere with the idea that what is Levi's now belongs to them. No reason.

When they find him, some of the members think it's funny to hit him and shove him around while some of the others are, "Come on, guys, it's a fucking kid, leave him alone." But Levi doesn't care that they landed a few superficial bruised. He only cares that they think it's okay to move into his building as well. He retreats to plan his revenge, but never gets the chance to come up with anything. Two nights after his own discovery, the idiots drag some girl into the building. She kicking and screaming, but they are laughing.

Of all the horrible things Levi has done and witnessed over the years, rape has never been one he could tolerate. Not even a little. He drops from the ceiling like he's taking on a titan again, landing on one guy's shoulders. His knife plunges into the back of that guy's neck, and he's jumping before the body hits the ground, leaping to grab hold of one of the exposed pipes. It groans, but holds his weight. The gang is shout is in confused chaos, waving guns about like lunatics. His next target is holding the girl. He drops, reaching around like Kenny taught him and ripping the guy's throat open. He takes the fall to the floor, grabbing the girl's hand and pulling her out the half open door while the others stare in enraged shock.

"Run," he orders, shoving her away from the building. She stumbles, wide-eyed and terrified, but takes off. A bullet ricochets near his feet and Levi darts around the corner. The neighbors have an odd collection of flammable things and - ah! There they are.

Five gallons of kerosene, as it turns out, is extremely heavy. He's thankful for the board he's stretched and nailed across the two buildings, as it makes devising a pulley system that much easier. A handful of ropes and a lot of luck, and Levi has lovely building just aching to be set on fire.

"Are you cockless wonders going to run around like headless chickens all night or are you going to come get me?" he shouts from the second floor window. He ducks back in just as they start shooting, grinning sand panting and doing a remarkable impression of the shitty brat. As he expected, they come thundering in like a herd of poorly trained elephants. Levi jumps out the window, skids down the walls, and dashes around the slam and block the door. The second floor explodes.

Sniffing his clothes as he walks away, Levi grimaces. He smells like a gas station. That's going to take forever to wash out.


	8. Knock Knock - Who's There?

Knock Knock - Who's There?

She doesn't bother with sneaking. Sneaking is for peace and the absence of red. Red films over her vision like spiderwebs. It clogs her throat until she's choking on it, gasping desperately for air. The last time she experienced red like this was when Eren went down in a shower to blood, unable to breathe without lungs. Steam poured from his, rising and rolling across the ground, burning everyone as he attempted to regenerate. But the blood was faster, a stream of liquid fire and life soaking dead into the grass. She knew he wouldn't live. Not like that, not ever again. She's gotten so caught up in the excitement of opening the Walls that she missed such an obvious threat. And saw red. She demanded red for her brother's life, made an art of skinning the trash who dared hurt him. Kill him.

Mikasa can't say that she's attached to these parents, but they're all she has for now and she'll be damned if she lets them go out like her original parents did. And if she's too late, well, she hadn't been Levi's best student for nothing.

She slinks out of her room, quiet as a cat, twisting around corners but not bothering to hide. Sneaking is for peace. Hiding is something children do. "You lose if you die," Eren told her once. They'd been about this age. "So fight." It has been a while since then. The message still holds true. She will fight until she finds her brother and then she will fight to keep them. She will fight to keep anything that is hers -

There is a light on in the kitchen. It buzzes like a dozen irritated flies and flickers just as much. A high-pitch static whine squeals from the overused bulbs. Mikasa hates it. She can hardly hear anything past the grating sound. Running water. Soft, unhappy, pained noises. The occasional clink and hiss. She steps into the room. Blood is smeared haphazardly across the floor. Broken glass litters the tile. Her mother is sitting sideways on the counter, both feet in the sink.

"Mika!" Her mother startles, banging an injured foot on the metal edge of the sink. She hisses a pained expletive and looks guilty immediately after. Mikasa twitches at the nickname - she really isn't a fan. "What are you doing - why are you dressed?" What begins as concerned question hardens into suspicion.

Mikasa doesn't answer. Instead, she skitters around the broken glass and hauls herself onto the counter. She crouches there, looking for all the world like a large black cat with the way her coat hangs around her, and peers at her mother's feet. The cuts are deep and they bleed a lot under the running water. "What happened?" she inquires softly. One small hand reaches out to gingerly lift a wounded limb into the light. She doesn't think it will need stitches, but it has been a while since she's looked at this sort of injury. Although, yes, there is glass caught in the cuts. She places the foot back under the spray and hops off the counter.

"Mikasa! What are you doing?" Her mother's tone charges into irritation, but her stern looks stopped working when Mikasa woke up. She is ignored. After the alert at the library and the tension of smelling blood in what she thought was a safe place, the girl is in no mood to play happy, obedient child. A sigh. "I dropped my glass water and slipped. It's not a big deal. I was going to wait for your dad to come home so that he could drive me to emergency. Now, why are you out of bed, young lady?"

Mikasa doesn't answer again, merely grabs a broom and begins sweeping the shards against the wall to take care of later. Then she trots down the hall, her movements efficient to the point that she's practically falling back on the days of her training in the 104th. It's how she deals with stress. There is a first aid kit in the bathroom. It's old and not well stocked, but it has the necessities. She grabs is and heads back to the kitchen. Her mother hasn't moved.

"You don't need stitches," she tells the woman, jumping back onto the counter. She places a towel on her lap and tugs a foot into place. The towel fades from gray to red under the dripping water and blood. She swipes gauze around the cuts and uses the tweezers to pluck out the leftover shards of glass. Another quick run under the faucet followed by a quick inspection, and another towel materializes to dry it off. Her mother sits in mostly stunned silence until the abrasive cloth makes contact and she begins swearing, clenching her hands against the counter as she fights back a fresh wave of tears.

"Almost done," Mikasa soothes.

The girl fishes through the medical supplies, tearing open a packet of disinfectant. If there is anything Mikasa loves about the present time, it is the advancements in medicine, disinfectants and antibiotics to be specific. She can't count the number of soldiers she had seen survive a titan attack only to die later at a hospital when infection set in. So many good people, lost. It almost happened to Armin when he got shot in the knee. They'd been able to fish the bullet out without causing major damage, but he'd been at risk of losing the leg for three weeks after that. Only Levi's quick thinking and obsession with cleanliness saved her brother in the end. Yet another thing she owes the captain. More than a handful of bandages, gauze, and tape, and Mikasa switches to the other foot, repeating the process.

"When did you learn how to do this?" The question is whispered between pained yelps.

"A while ago," Mikasa responds absently. "Eren's father taught me."

"Eren? Who's that?"

Mikasa swipes digs the tweezers in a little more and grasps the glittering, red-stained sliver between the ends as she considers the inquiry. Could it hurt to tell? "My best friend," she says eventually. The phrase feels wrong. "He's always fighting. His brother gets bullied a lot, so Eren charges in like an idiot. They get pretty beat up sometimes. I help patch them up." The story is true enough. Back when they were kids within the Walls, Armin did get bullied and Eren did rush in like a bull through a china shop. Mikasa often held the responsibility of ending the fights and tending the wounded. She finishes wrapping the taping the gauze down and begins cleaning up. There is blood everywhere. If she wakes up smelling it, she might panic again. Better to clean it up now.

There is a knock on the door before she finishes. Mikasa turns to her mother and smiles sweetly. "I love you," she says and goes to open the door. On other side is a confused looking gentleman wearing the black and gold uniform of the Wall Seekers. He was obviously obviously not expecting a child to answer the door at half past two in the morning.

"Oh, um, hello sweetheart. Is your mommy or daddy awake?" he asks hesitantly. Mikasa keeps up the facade of childishness, nodding brightly. They might not think that a child is the cause of their security breech. Good. That buys her a few more minutes.

Not opening the door further than the security chain allows, this isn't a great part of town after all, she says, "Mommy's in the kitchen, but she hurt her feet and can't walk. Who're you?" She increases the wattage of her touthy grin. The expression isn't one that comes easily I ever after years of practice. Lying is a necessity though. The Wall Seekers are not to be trusted.

The man blinks. He smiles in what he must think is a comforting manner. Mikasa shudders internally, reminded of the smiling titan that ate Enen's mom. In fact, the man looks a lot like that titan. He has the same reddish skin and stringy blonde hair. "I'm Officer Lucas Romero with the WCR," he hands her a black case containing his badge. She has never seen the official Wall Seeker badge, but it's so familiar that a wave of nostalgia nearly knocks her back. It's the symbol of the Walls, the face of humanity and the first King. She hands it back. "Can I come in, sweetheart?"

Do they have any proof? Did they track her here or are they guessing? She glaces back to her where her mother is still perched on the counter. Thinks of her father, he should be coming home in a few hours. "You lose if you die," Eren's voice echoes in the back of her mind. "Fight." And she will. She will fight to protect what she has and what she will lose if she gets caught today.

"Course!" she chips. She closes the door, undoes the security chain, and tugs it open again. "Mommy's in the kitchen," she repeats brightly, and yawns. One small arm gestures to the only room with light spilling out of it. "Over there." The Wall Seeker smiles again and moves past her. Mikasa closes the door. She follows the man into the kitchen and listens with only half an ear as he starts interrogating her perplexed mother.

Neither adult pays the child much mind as she rummages through the cupboards. That suits Mikasa just fine. It means they aren't watching when she pulls a thin blade from under a pot the family never uses. It reminds her of her swords. They don't acknowledge when she climbs onto the counter, too involved in an brewing argument. Mikasa lunges off the tile, bringing the knife up and slicing clean through the Wall Seeker's spine. He falls with a dull thud, girl landing in a crouch on his back. Her mother screams.


	9. Found

**Hello Dearlings. My first AN on this story. I'm going to give credit to Not so human anymore for their amazing wonderful help as a sounding board and idea creator. They are an amazing person. Also, one of my anon reviewers asked if I was going to romanticize Eren and Mikasa's relationship. I'm not. In this story, Eren, Mikasa, and Armin are firmly in the sibling category as far as relationships go. I don't know who/if I will ship, but it won't be them. And, I'm sorry, but I really need sleep and will not be updating this Saturday, aka tomorrow.**

Found

Eren breathes out carefully, releasing another mouthful of foul-tasting steam. It's sort of yellow-ish and makes him want to gag more than the stench permeating the back seat of the car. Stale beer and rotting food. He isn't sure how the men in the front can even stand to drive this thing. It's vile. Or maybe Levi's standards have rubbed off on him. Has he been cleaning more than usual? He doesn't think so, but -

The car swerves and jerks to a stop. Eren grabs one of the buckles to keep himself from rolling into the mess on the floor. The idiots didn't even both with a seat belt, just sort of haphazardly tossed a blanket over him. They're expecting the drug to keep him out of trouble, but obviously don't know the laws of motion. Had he actually been unconscious, he would have landed in the trash a long time ago.

The large one grunts something as his phone rings, fishing it out of his pocket. "What?" he snaps, and immediately pales. "Boss. Sorry. Yeah." He gets out of the car, followed by the frowning driver. Eren watches them through narrowed eyes. "You've got the other kid already? Alright. We should be at the house in a couple of hours. No. Nothing went wrong. We have to stop for gas." The doors slam sharply and Eren flinches. His ears are _sensitive_. Not that these idiots care. They think he's sleeping.

Carefully, so as to not attract attention, the boy sits up. He needs to know where he is. Despite burning off the effects of the drug hours ago, Eren hasn't been able to move at all. In some ways it would have been easier if he actually was unconscious. Then he wouldn't feel twitchy and cooped up. He's always been able to move as much as he wanted. As a kid within the Walls, his mother was always sending him and Mikasa out to collect firewood or buy something from the market. He'd been able to run around and get in fights protecting Armin from bullies. Then, after the titans returned, it had been two hard years working on the farm. Fun sunrise to sunset, they worked. Their hands bled and their knees bruised in return for very little food, but there was always work. In the military they were always running. Running with packs and in the rain an through mud and snow. Then they were flying. Fly over a building, run to the next, fly over that one. Running was punishment and exercise. Then came the war. Sometimes, Eren thinks the war involved more running than training did. He'd run to fight and run from fights. he'd run to hide, fly though danger and dart down for the kill. Twist here and there to avoid getting shot. Avoid an enemy's knife.

The first ten years of the war wasn't even against the titans. Military police versus the scouting legion. Human against human. They fought in the shadows, hitting hard and silent, desperate not to let the public know what was happening. It was a race to get Historia on the throne and in charge before the military police got everyone killed. There were a few close calls of course. When Kenny Ackerman double crossed the Reebs Conpany and kidnapped both Eren and Historia - nothing about that situation was good. Levi had been beyond pissed when he rallied enough people to rescue them. It cost them Connie. The idiot boy went one on one against the former serial killer. He lost, but his actions bought the others enough time to escape.

Staying perfectly still is torture, especially now in this younger body. It's as if he's overflowing with energy and as no outlet for it.

He peeks out the window, towards the street, and freezes.

* * *

She's sixteen the first time she takes a human life. It's not a mercy kill as some of the others have done. The man in front of her is the enemy, a spy, a traitor. A snake hidden under the rocks, waiting until it was time to strike. And strike he did. In one move, half of the senior members of the survey corp was dead or in prison. As good as dead. They don't see any of them again.

Levi nearly lost an eye. Sasha's right hand is disfigured, to fingers missing. Commander Zoe had to rework the maneuver gear so that the girl can continue to use it. "Like hell I'm going out," the girl snarled. She hadn't been the same since Connie died. Historia gained an interesting scar on her leg, almost like the marks that appear on Eren after he shifts.

It's not a kill born of anger. Mikasa doesn't lash out wildly like Eren does.

No. When she finds the leak, Mikasa doesn't tell anyone. Not Levi, not her brothers, and not any of the higher ups. Instead, she waits until night has fallen and the snake thinks that it is safe to relax. The night is free of predators now. He's wrong. Mikasa might not normally hunt at night, she might not normally hunt humans, but what is a good predator if if can't change its routine a little. She prowls into the snake's room, stalks over to the bed, and wakes the traitor with cold steel against his neck.

A headless snake is no threat to anyone. All it takes is one hit. The sword, designed to withstand multiple attacks on titans, slides through flesh and bone as if it isn't even there.

The others find him the next morning. They find Mikasa at the table polishing her blades and they find the snake.

"You left a mess upstairs," Levi growls. "Go clean it up." And Mikasa does.

She can't clean up this mess, unfortunately. As strong as she is, her body is only that of a little girl.

The dead man isn't a equal to her mass this time. Seven-year-old's cannot move the bleeding corpse of a grown man without help. Her mother isn't likely to be any. After screaming, the woman fell into a sort of catatonic state of shock. It's amazing that she hasn't fallen off the counter.

Mikasa scowls and walks down the hall to her bedroom. She has an old, blue and white backpack in there fore school. It's large enough that it should be able to hold what she needs. She empties it of everything but a notebook and a few pencils, and begins stuffing it full again. Shirts and pants and underwear and socks, a sweater, the purple and cream baby blanket that she couldn't help but grow attacked to. A flashlight. The few dollars she's managed to save. The zipper barely closes. Her good jacket gets tied around her waist. Trotting back into the kitchen, the girl avoids the fresh blood seeping across the floor and riffles through the Wall Seeker's pockets. Nothing surprising. A wallet, his badge, a packet of tic-tacs, and a gun. Well, the last is a little surprising. She grabs everything except the candy, gingerly holding the gun.

It dwarfs her hands. Any temptation Mikasa might have had to keep it washes away. She's too small to use it without injuring herself and she knows better than to keep a useless weapon. Best to get rid of it.

With one last look at her shell-shocked mother, the girl walks calmly out the front door. Three flights of stairs and she's on the street, ducking out of the path of her father's headlights as he pulls up. He'll be in for a nasty surprise. Mikasa walks calmly though the shadows. She twists around corners and through alleys until she's several streets over. There is an idiot over here that thinks he's a drug lord. Or something. She drops the gun through his mail slot. Let him get caught with the thing, not her problem.

She takes off jogging down the street.

By dawn she's exhausted and cursing her actions. She ran. Why did she run? Her parents would probably have covered for her. Maybe. But she'd panicked and ran. She sighs and leans against a wall, pulling out the wallet. ID, credit cards, a recipe for a gas station, some coupons, a lottery ticket, and twelve bucks.

Twelve.

She'd been hoping for at least twenty!

Mikasa slumps to the ground. She hasn't stayed up this late since before the war ended. It drags her down, pulling on her eyelids and shutting off portions of her brain. There's just no more energy. Perhaps that's why she doesn't hear the car screech to a halt in the gas station. Why she doesn't acknowledge the men grumbling at the hour. Why she doesn't hear someone running full tilt at her until they're on the ground several feet from where she'd been sitting.

Arms tight around his sister's shoulders, Eren doesn't cry so much as sob uncontrollably into her hair. Mikasa will never be too tired to recognize his voice choking out her name as if it's his first sip of water in years. Maybe it has been. She hugs him back just as tight, hands fisting in his shirt. "_Eren,_" she breathes, stunned, and then she's crying too.


	10. Withdrawal

**Did you guys know that 24 hours without sleep is the equivalent of .1 alcohol levels. Or something. Either way, I got zero sleep last night, so I am staying up until bedtime so that maybe I can wake up in time for my class tomorrow. Fuck I'm tired. Anyways, I woke my muse from its daylight hibernation and we wrote this because I'm exhausted. Tada or whatever. I don't really care about anything right now. Except maybe caffeine. This chapter is probably filled with glaring grammatical errors. You still aren't getting a chapter tomorrow, but you get two today. It'll have to tide you over.**

Withdrawal

Armin struggles on the inhale as his entire body seizes in an approximation of a shiver. It feels like the flu. He wishes it was the flu. Then he could puke all over Kenny fucking Ackerman and get that bastard sick too. That would be amazing. Kenny Ackerman miserable and sick, curled up under a blanket with chicken soup and a fever so high he's hallucinating. A fever high enough that his organs catch fire and he burns up from the inside, because that's what is happening to Armin – he's certain that something inside of him is burning, on fire, and he's going to die from this not-flu is Kenny fucking Ackerman doesn't hurry up an kill him.

What exactly were those idiots thinking? He's freaking forty-nine, wait, no, that's wrong, he's eight. He has to remember that. He's eight now, and that's a problem because he is small and defenseless again, doesn't even have Mikasa and Eren relying on him, no, that's wrong too, they didn't rely on him until he was older, not a weakling brat that can't stand fend off bullies without his younger siblings. Not that Kenny fucking Ackerman is a normal bully. Those stupid kids would have wet themselves had they knowingly been within the same town as the stupid serial killer. Stupid military police. They always ruin everything. Can't they just learn to stay out of the way like good... like good dogs? Historia calls them her personal guard dogs, or, wait, _Ymir_ calls them poor excuses for guard dogs. Yeah. That's right.

Ymir makes a much better guard dog than any of the military police. She can turn into a titan and bite peoples' heads off. Levi can do that too, but he doesn't have to turn into a titan. He just opens his mouth and words tumble out like scary acrobatic swords or chop idiots into tiny, itty bitty, pieces.

Armin wishes Levi was here now. "I'm not your captain anymore," he growls at them, swimming into focus. The remainder of the 104th stares at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes. The man sighs aggressively. "The scouting legion was officially disbanded. All of you shit-stains are technically renegade soldiers and traitors to the crown." Despite the anger in his words, his eyes are bland, disinterested.

The kids look to each other to make certain that, yes, that is what everyone else just heard. Eren is practically seething with rage, seemingly only holding his tenuous control because of Mikasa's steady hand on his shoulder. Armin isn't sure what to think. They've been disbanded. They lost. Sasha is snarling as if possessed by a wolf, but her head is down. Historia and Mikasa are blank.

Jean looks up, face scrunched in determination. "Historia is the Queen. We can't be traitors to the crown if we - " His words fade and Armin is staring at the dark, dank walls of the dark, dank room he's been occupying for the last several days. His friends aren't here. Why had he thought they were? He hasn't seen any of them in at least eight years.

"Where is Eren Jeager?" a voice croons. And there's Eren in the corner, bleeding out and dying, dying, dead, but he's wrong, too young, far too young even though the hole in his chest is the same size, not so much a hole as tiny Eren ripped in half like so many other corpses. The room is filled with them, rotting.

"No, no, no, no," Armin whimpers and attempts to cover his eyes but his hands are taped behind his back. He's fairly certain that he's on fire. His head is on fire. His head! He can see the flames out of the corner of his eye, but they don't go near the festering bodies littered around him, piled high. He closes his eyes but he can still see it, seem them, feel the flames eating away at his flesh like the rot does the corpses.

Soon they'll drown the the slime and Not Eren in the corner is laughing at him mocking. "Stupid baby Armin. Pathetic. Useless. You let me get killed. It's your fault. All your fault. Because you're a useless wimp. Not even worth the cloak on your shoulders. How many of us did you kill, baby Armin? How much of our blood is on your hands? Mine. Mikasa's. Levi's. Jean's. Connie's. Everything Sasha did, that's certainly your fault. You killed Connie."

"NO! Shut up!" He curls up as much as he can with his hands behind his back, and sobs into his knees. "_You're wrong, you're wrong, you're not real._" Armin keeps up the litany, not noticing that he slips into common somewhere in the middle. He's desperate to drown out the jeering laughter, harsh and grating.

Outside the door, two people stand guard. A man and a woman, neither of them particularly nice or kind individuals. They listen to the desperate shouting and heart-wrenching sobs with barely a twitch. This is not the worst they've heard by, having stood watch over this very room as Boss dug information out of some tight lipped idiot with a knife. Boss is in there now. He's supposedly interrogating the kid, but to the two outside it seems less of an interrogation and more watching the kid hallucinate.

They've been standing guard for a week.

"What were they giving that kid?" the man asks suddenly. His expression hasn't changed and his stance is still the straight-backed rigidity Boss demands out of everyone, but something around his eyes is a little off when the woman glances over.

She shrugs. "I dunno. But whatever it was, he's coming down hard."

"Yeah," the man agrees. They do not shudder when the kid releases a piercing shriek. It is uncertain if the sound is one or pain or fear. "I had a cousin. Were were close as kids. He got wrapped up in some back shit, started taking the hard drugs. We were able to get him into rehab once. It, he sounded a lot like that." Another scream they do not respond to. They can hear Boss inside, murmuring in the same strange language that the kid is. It's almost as if Boss is prompting the boy's hallucinations. He'll say something, there will be a moment's pause, and then the kids takes off into another stream of terrorized babble.

They both face forward again, resolutely ignoring all sounds from within the room. They are not good people.


	11. Missing

**Hello My Dears! A day of sleep (slightly less than six hours, despite by efforts) and the most boring eight hour class I have ever sat through, has my motivation swirling around zero. However, I love you guys, so I'm going to write this chapter and it is going to suck, probably, unless I stay up until 4am. **

**Also so in chapter... nine? Eight? I said that Mikasa killed the snake/traitor. (Not the WCR officer) I said that the snake was female. Remember that? Well, plot devices have changed and I have spoken to my Not Human friend, so that snake is now male. I'm going to change it in the story, but I just wanted you guys to know.**

Missing

Kalura's looking though one of the boxes they have yet to unpack, the contents spread all over the kitchen table. She can't go in the kitchen. It's probably the smallest room the the house, other than the bathrooms, and there are about twelve people in there. There isn't any air left with everyone crowded around the phone. Every other sentence is about The Plan. Why to do if they ask for money. How to ask to speak to their baby.

_We have your son.  
__We'll be in contact soon._

Not the most inspired note, but it did the trick. Kalura found it when she went to let Anka out, the poor dear.

Eren usually sleeps curled up in the middle of the bed, one pillow hugged tight to his chest with another barely within arm's reach, the fingers of one hand grasping the edge. She hasn't been able to get him to use a pillow as a pillow in years. Not since he was tiny. This morning, a strange smell came wafting out of Eren's room when she opened the door. It smelled like poo, but Anka hadn't gone inside since she was a small puppy. Then she saw it, the poor dog in an awkward, disgusting heap of fecal matter and twisted limbs - and Eren's bed empty of all but a blanket and a single sheet of white paper. In the center of the page, two tiny sentences.

_We have your son.  
__We'll be in contact soon._

God, someone has her son, her baby! They took him and she didn't even notice.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, having done her crying earlier this morning when only her husband could see her, Kalura reaches out and pulls a battered scrapbook in front of her. It falls open several pages in, bits of paper and candy wrappers taped to the creamy pages. She runs a finger over one of the notes. Girlish, curling handwriting glitters across the wrinkled scrap. _Have you seen the new TA? He's so hot..._

* * *

Breathless, Carla plants herself on the grass next to her best friend. It's lunch and one of the last sunny days the valley is expecting before a cold front whips down from Canada. Nikki is determined to soak up as much of the warmth as possible. Carla doesn't really care about the sun. As long as it stays lit and doesn't bother her future plans, it can go on burning like the giant ball of gas it is. Besides, she's too excited to sit still. "_Nikki!_" she whines when her friend doesn't open her eyes. "Did you hear? Mr. Fraiser has a new TA. He's from the high school, a senior."

"That's nice," Nikki drawls. "I'd rather they relax the dress code. I can't feel the sun under all these clothes."

Carla glares. "Your skirt is shorter than regulation and your shirt is half unbuttoned. You're showing as much skin as you do in swim. _Anyway_. Amy says that the TA is really hot. Do you think she's right?"

Finally, Nikki slits an eye open to peer incredulously up at the other girl. "Amy? Amy Brent the slut of eighth grade? What were you doing talking to her?" Her tone is somewhere between horrified and nap time. They are two years younger than Amy and the older teenagers don't think it's cool to be seen talking to anyone younger than them. Granted, neither Nikki nor Carla would want to hang out with elementary school kids.

"What? Oh, she needed a, uh." Carla gestures vaguely downward, looking embarrassed. Nikki gives her a strange look, but doesn't question further. "We're talking about the new TA! Stop distracting me! Apparently his name is Grisha."

"He sounds like a dork."

* * *

That was the year she decided to marry him. Marry Grisha Jeager, the man with the strange name and a car. Her friends thought that she was crazy for even wanting to, especially once it became clear that Grisha was a little strange. All boys were strange, of course, but most weren't interested in plagues and genetics.

"Kalura? What are you doing?" Her husband squeezes out of the kitchen. His eyes are red and his hair's a mess from constantly running his fingers through it.

Kalura smiles, just a little, and slumps over the table. "Did you even know I existed back then? That we'd get married and have a beautiful baby." She isn't going to cry again. That is not something that will happen.

Grisha eases across the room and wraps her in his arms. He's shaking. "No. All the middle school kids looked the same to me." They stand there, holding each other, for several long minutes.

Then the phone rings. It's shrill, breaking across the quiet murmuring of police officers stuffed like sardines in the kitchen. It shatters any sense of comfort Grisha and Kalura managed to build in their tiny bubble of memories. One ring, two, and Kalura dives for the phone. "Hello?"

* * *

Eren is two months old and the most beautiful baby Kalura has sever seen. He has bright, blue-green eyes, a happy smile, dark hair, and a couple of oddly symmetrical birthmarks on his chest. He is also completely inconsolable at the moment. Kalura cradles her red-faced and screaming son as she has for the last hour, gently rocking back and forth as she sings the lullaby that usually drops him right into sleep. He's generally such an easy baby. Just, not today.

Specter, Grisha's ancient black cat and resident empress of the known and unknown universe, opens one green eye to glare at the noisy duo. She had been perfectly content to nap in the sun all afternoon, but no, her sleep has been interrupted by a squalling kit and an incompetent female. Rising elegantly to her paws, the cat pads across the carpet stand in front of the rocking chair. it hurts her aching joints to jump up on the not-quite-full lap, not that she'll ever admit it to anyone. She is a goddess, after all.

She lays down on the kit, paws carefully on the blanket because her claws don't retract quite as well as they used to and the kit has no fur. Silly humans. Then, with the dignity of a queen, Specter starts up a rumbling purr reminiscent of a small jet engine. Within moments, the kit is quiet and sleeping. No noise, no fuss. She stands, careful of the kit's squishy middle, and jumps off the chair. Minced steps bring her back to the sunny spot.

The look she gives Kalura says one thing and needs no translation.

Amateur.

* * *

"This is Special Agent Erwin Smith with the FBI. I am speaking to Kalura Jeager, yes? Eren's mother."

"My baby? You know where my baby is? Please, is he alright? What happened, where is he?!" Kalura is just shy of shouting into the phone. Listening on a different line, Grisha and an officer are wide-eyed with shock. The FBI is calling them before the kidnappers. Outside, the moon glows down at the street.

A brief stretch of silence. Then, "Levi! Bring Eren over here so that he can tell his family he's not hurt," can be heard, muffled by distance from the speaker. Quieter than that comes, "Yeah, yeah. Come on brat." Grisha bristles. That is the opposite of profressionalism and not how to deal with traumatized children. Eren has enough problems without some rude agent adding to it.

"Hi mom," comes Eren's voice. It crackles over the connection like a breath of fresh air. Kalura lets a quick sob escape, relief loosening her control. He sounds tired, but happy, which is a little strange given the circumstances. Happy at being rescued? "I'm fine. I just need a bath. Comman- Agent Erwin can explain what happened. I need to get back to Armin. He's still sick and Mikasa needs stitches. They're being stubborn about letting the para-whatists look them over. I'll talk to you later." The phone names the shuffling, scratchy noise of exchanging hands again before either parent can think of something to say. "Armin," they can hear distantly, it's just an IV. I won't let them - " The voice fades.

"My apologies," Smith sighs. "It has been a long night for those three. Eren and his friends handled themselves remarkably, but there are some things you need to hear and none of it should be said over the phone. Especially not over an unsecured line. If you and your husband could come down to my office, Mrs. Jeager, I'll explain everything." He rattles off the address and city - a city eight hours away.

"Friends?" Kalura whispers unintentionally.

Erwin pauses in what he was saying. "Yes. Eren Jeager, Mikasa Ackerman, and Armin Arlert. All three were kidnapped recently. Please, if you could just come down to my office?"

There no choice really. Their son is down there. "We'll be there tomorrow."

* * *

Eren is three years old, running and giggling from the cool water spritzing out of the sprinkler. His toothy grin is infectious and both Grisha and Kalura find themselves smiling and laughing as they play as well. Eren slips in the wet grass. It's not the first time. This time, though, he stays on his hands and knees, small body complete rigid. His parents sink down next to him, questioning, Did he get hurt?

Grisha touches his back and the boy tumbles away in a full-body flinch. When he looks up at them, his jewel-like turquoise eyes show no recognition.


	12. Meeting

Jeremy pulls the car to a stop in front of dilapidated house in the middle of nowhere. It used to be a farmhouse of some kind, but Boss fixed it up to suit his needs. Surrounding it are fields of corn spreading towards the horizon. When Jeremy first started working for the boss, he wondered who took care of all that corn. It's not wild. Each plant is in a neat row, the dirt soft and wall watered. He doesn't care now. Not now that it's mid-afternoon and hot as Hell's boiler rooms.

Baker slides out of the car, lumbering around to the back. He's not sweating as much as Jeremy, but has been complaining more. The AC doesn't work. There's traffic. They have to stop to give the kids water. Boss is going to be pissed that they're late. That they have extra baggage. That it's fucking hot and he wants a drink. On several occasions, usually when they'd pull on to some abandoned side street to refill the kids' water bottles and let them pee, if they had to, Jeremy had to refrain punching the larger man in the face. Normally, Jeremy would consider himself a fairly even tempered sort of guy, but Baker. Baker seriously gets on his nerves. Swearing and complaining and generally being a pain in the ass - that's Baker. The kids didn't put up as much of a fight as his supposed partner. Why Boss stuck them together.

Jeremy throws open the trunk and it met with two baleful glares. The kids are curled together despite the heat. Perhaps in spite of the heat. The duct tape Baker once again insisted on wrapping them in has been shredded. Again. A niggling feeling in the back of his head says that these kids are little escape artists, that they're cooperating for a reason. That might have something to do with the conversation he overheard once they noticed the boy was not in the car, but what kid volunteers to be kidnapped? That's just crazy.

"Don't fight," the boy said. Calm. Collected. Not drugged in the slightest. Considering how light the brat was, he should have been out for hours more, not fully conscious barely three into the trip. And the girl - she was terrifying. They'd searched her after discovering blood on her hands and clothes. A knife, still tacky, had been stuffed in her pocket.

Terrifying girl. She's what, six? She glares at him with black eyes and twists in front of the boy when Jeremy reaches in to drag them out. He shrugs and grabs her instead. Either way, both are getting out of this car. It's amazing they haven't suffered from heat stroke or something. The girl in hand, he reaches for the boy. One touch of skin on skin is enough to know that the brat should be delirious with fever. Still, his eyes are clear. Weird.

Baker unlocks the door for them. Considerate of him. Then he slinks into the kitchen leaving Jeremy with two strangely pliant brats. Shouldn't they be crying or something? Jeremy's never done the kidnapping thing before. Nor has be much experience with children. But, aren't kids usually fussy anyway? These brats were just kidnapped! Shouldn't they be at least a little scared? Asking to go home? Crying for mommy and daddy? Trying to run away? It almost made sense when the boy escaped, but then he just sat there waiting to be grabbed again.

"Let's go," Jeremy grumbles at them, disconcerted. He tugs them towards the stairs leading to the cellar turned prison-area. They follow compliantly. Freaky.

Bianca and Coalman are standing guard in front of one of the cells. "Boss says drop'em here if you show up 'fore he gets back," Bianca says. She looks a little pale, which is weird but none of Jeremy's business. These two stand guard because no one else could stomach what Boss does to people in there. He drags the kids down the last few steps the the floor and across the room. He's a little rougher than he probably has to be, but at least then it feels like the brats are resisting. Sort of. Coalman opens the door.

Light spills in, illuminating a small blonde thing huddled in the corner.

"_**Armin!**_" both kids shout. The boy is suddenly too hot to hold on to, literally burning Jeremy's hand. The girl - Jeremy stares in shock at him limp left hand, the pain not yet kicking in. His wrist is broken. She broke his wrist! Bianca and Coalman are also visibly confused. The kids, instead of running away like sane brats, ran _into the room_. They paw at the blonde until he's squished between them, whispering and petting him. The boy appears incensed, actually growling at the three in the doorway.

Bianca slams the door shut.

"You should do something about that," Coalman remarks, peering at Jeremy's wrist. He's about to respond when the pain sets in and -

* * *

Armin is a pale and shaky mess, covered in unfortunate liquids. Without being asked, Eren rises from the floor fetch an obviously unused bucket. He fills it with water from a tiny faucet in the corner. Shitty water pressure means that it takes forever, but eventually he gets back to his brother and sister. Mikasa has stripped Armin of most of his clothes. She piled them off to the side and gathered the blonde in her lap.

Eren strips off his shirt, ripping off one of the sleeves to use as a washcloth. The water is tepid, at best, but Armin sits through the cleaning without a twitch. Mikasa pulls her bag - she had refused to leave it behind - closed and they begin redressing their brother in something warm and dry. Clean.

When Armin looks up, blue eyes glassy but attempting to focus somewhere to the left of Eren's head, he croaks, "You're real."

Which is how the three wind up piled over each other in the corner, Armin practially laying on top of Eren Mikasa's head cradled in his lap. Eren's using his sister's legs as a pillow so that they're all touching, all connected, and Armin can feel that they are real. The blonde can't trust his eyes or ears, babbling something about medication that made him fuzzy.

Mikasa starts talking first. She drags her fingers through Armin's sweat-damp hair. It's cut short and poofs up in little spikes. "You look like Erwin with your hair short," she states. Her voice is lower than either boy is accustomed to. It sounds - not weird, but different. Blue eyes flicker above her head. She can't tell if he's seeing double or looking at something that isn't there. She'd rather the first.

The silence stretches between them. More than two decades as friends and desperate to see each other again, no one knows what to say. They've never been apart for so long. The distance seems almost insurmountable.

"Have you heard from any of the others?" Eren asks softly. He's centered now that the other two are here. His emotions - the simmering, roiling, festering miasma that he calls his emotions - have settled like the ocean into tides. Perhaps not calm, but less likely to overwhelm him. Only one person has been able to pull him out of a blind rage and as much as he hates to admit it, that person is neither of his siblings.

MIkasa shrugs, sort of. Her shoulders move just enough for her brothers to feel. "None of our friends. I think my dance teacher is one of the military police, but he hasn't done anything." She nudges Eren's head with her knee. "You?"

"Naw. Only my parents, but they don't remember anything." his breath ruffles the short strands of Armin's hair. "Dad's different. I don't understand it. No secret basement rooms or long trips or anything. He's just a doctor. It doesn't make sense."

"There aren't any titans now," MIkasa suggests. Eren heaves a dramatic sigh. Titans.

Armin coughs. Not a sick cough, although he is definitely sick, but an about to speak cough. MIkasa and Eren focus back on their brother. "Kenny Ackerman," he rasps. That's all it takes to make their blood run cold, fear and anger pooling in their stomachs. "He's here."

No one killed Kenny Ackerman. Despite Mikasa and Sasha's multiple attempts and Levi's near miss, Kenny's death was not the result of the scouting legion. None of them were good enough to kill him. Which makes it all the more terrifying that he's here now. Now, when they are all too small to fight properly

"We need to leave."


	13. Countdown

**I have a very important question for you all.**

**What do you think is in the basement? My Not Human friend and I have been talking about it recently and while we have come up with a few theories for the purpose of this story, I would like your thoughts as well.**

Countdown

Armin hauls his aching body into an upright position. His muscles burn, straining at the effort. He needs to be sitting for this. He needs to feel normal, despite the fact that his eyes won't focus and he's still seeing flickers of the unreal. That, and he wants to resemble a limp noodle and slip unconscious to the floor. He won't though. Can't. Mikasa and Eren are looking at him for answers even as they try to keep him from making the decisions. That's how it has always worked. Armin makes the plans and give the orders. Eren and Mikasa follow through and make last minute adjustments when the enemy does something unexpected. Things get done. A hundred year war against the titans ended in just twenty.

It wasn't that simple, of course. If there were history books written about that time, that is what it would say. Less than a dozen people and twenty years to end a war. If only it had been that easy.

"Armin, lay down, you're sick," Mikasa orders. Her hands are gentle on his shoulders, and, to be completely honest with himself, a kitten could probably knock him over right now, but he shakes her hands off.

"No." He coughs. His throat hurts like Kenny fucking Ackerman poured acid down it. Probably just a result of his yelling from earlier. "I'll slow you two down if I can't move on my own. We need to get out of here fast." Armin breaks into another coughing fit. Eren drags him over to the faucet and help him drink. The water burns when he swallows the first couple of times. Talking isn't going to be easy. "Kenny will be back soon," he whispers. "We need to leave before that happens."

Eren and Mikasa nod, frowning. They hate it when he pushes himself too far, always wanting to help and protect him like he's a baby and not older than them. Okay, he's not that much older than them, just a few months, but the point remains. He knows what he's capable of. He coughs again. Fine, he _mostly_ knows what he's capable of.

"Can you get us out?" Eren asks, switching to common and glaring at the door. The only light available floods in through the crack at the bottom. If light can get in, sound can get out. "There are two guards outside and at least two more upstairs. Three men, one woman. One of the men is injured and another is huge. They all probably have weapons. At least one gun."

Armin has been their leader, their captain, for so long that reporting comes easily even now. When the scouting legion fell to the traitor, Commander Hange had to rework the ranks. Levi was promoted, sort of; he actually refused a new rank. Armin was put in charge of the remnants of the 104th, rank upgraded to 'captain' despite only being seventeen. He preferred working under the commander and Levi. The others fell into line under him, taking cues from Eren and Mikasa. Except for Jean. Jean followed Armin because he wanted to (and because Hange grinned manically and said that if he didn't want to be in Armin's squad, they needed a personal assistant for _science_).

Without Levi's dirrect influence hanging over her head, Historia relaxed a little. Armin often put her in charge of small missions in an effort to get her accustomed to leading. Ruling. Slowly but surely she grew into the position and began responding like a queen should. Perhaps not how others thought a queen should, like the public, because like many who worked in close quarter with Levi for any length of time, she picked up a bit of a mouth. And a temper to keep from getting bowled over when Eren and Jean started fighting. And Shasha's determined desire to keep everyone around her safe. Historia became a person, not a doll.

Eren, surprising many, only put up resistance that Levi would be leaving the group. He said that he'd been following Armin since they were kids. A new title wasn't going to change anything.

Armin takes a breath. In, out. He takes another. "Mikasa, what's the house like?"

Black eyes flicker to the ground as she thinks, leaning forward. "Old, but there have been renovations. We're in a cellar. There are two more cells like this one and I didn't see any exits. There are doors at both the top and bottom of the stairs. Both were closed when we were brought down. From the front door there are three doorways and a staircase leading up. The big man went into the first room - a bathroom or kitchen, there was tile on the floor. I don't know about the other two or the second floor. The house is isolated, no other buildings around, but it is connected to electricity and the driveway isn't too long. It's past noon," she adds.

"Kenny...comes in after the meals," Armin speculates slowly. He tilts his head back, staring in the direction of the dark ceiling. Something, not Eren or Mikasa, slithers along the wall. He can't tell if it's real or not. "He's already been here today. But he'll probably come again now that you're here. We can't let him find us."

"Obviously," Eren spits and Armin slashes a shaking hand slightly too close to his face.

"No!" the blonde snaps. "He's been asking questions about you. About how you ended the war and where you are now. He's been looking for us. Now that we're all here - I don't think he's aiming at killing us this time." He takes a deep breath and another few swallows of water, half collapsing on his brother in order to do so. When was the last time he actually slept? "You'll need to take out the guards outside first. Can you do that?"

He's looking at Mikasa, but she shakes her head. "They took my knife. Without a weapon, without surprise, I'm just a seven-year-old. Can you shift, Eren?"

Eren groans and flops back on the floor. His head cracks against the cement, causing the other two to wince. Seconds later steam escapes from his mouth. "I've tried," he explains, waving a negligent hand though the air. Even in the limited light, they can see the lack of scars on his wrist. "But I can only heal."

"And... the other thing?"

"Nothing yet. I'm surprised the healing transferred over, let alone that."

Armin hums. His mind is spinning, working as hard as it can in circles comprised of cold molasses. There is one plan, but he doesn't like it. He'd rather something safer. So much could go wrong.

But they don't have the luxury of time. Their chances of escape with Kenny around are too close to zero for for Armin's comfort. "Here's what we'll do," he says.


	14. Flood

**A little later than usual, but hey, it's up. And it's the longest chapter yet!**

Flood

Armin stares out at the battle field from his perch on Erens's head. As a titan, his brother is taller than most of the surrounding buildings and the height advantage allows the young tactician a bird's eye view of the surrounding fight. Titans coming from the south, three aberrations at the head. Eren is watching them closely, marking their distance from the human on human battle taking place in the town. Instructing Eren to shift had been a calculated risk on Armin's part. They try to keep him human when fighting the military police. He's harder to kill that way, far more skilled on the 3DMG than many of those in the unicorn brigade. Outsid Wall Rose, though, the scouting legion needs the protection of his titan form so that they can fight the military police without worrying about being bitten in half. They worry anyway, a force of habit. The other downside is that Eren inadvertently winds up protecting the military police as well.

Mikasa shoots a cable into Eren's shoulder and flies up to crouch next to the blonde. Her swords dangle from her loose grip, nowhere near ready to fall, but at rest. There is a cut on her arm. The blood shows in stark outline against the white of her shirt. Armin glances down at her. That's the problem with fighting humans. Their blood, your blood, it doesn't evaporate like titan blood. Now the blood on their clothes is not that of only fallen comrades, but that of those they kill and their own. Swords means for titans devastate human flesh with alarming ease.

The young captain can see Levi flying through, around, and over enemies. Silver steel glints in fading sunlight, one blade caught in a man's back and pulling up as the former squad leader spins away, task complete and searching for another. Green wings flare out behind him, his cloak caught in the wind. He's the only one who doesn't seem to mind killing humans. He treats each target like a titan, diving in from behind like some giant bird of prey. In for the kill. Dead falling out of the sky.

Even human wars can't be fought on the ground anymore.

Eren lurches to the left, right foot lashing out and catching a seven meter square in the neck. Its head snaps off, steam billowing as it disintegrates. A quick stomps has the base of its neck destroyed.

Mikasa takes off over the next building and Armin flings himself into a complicated nest of beams someone once dared call a water tower. The top is higher up that Eren's head, safer too now that his brother is fighting, Mikasa darting in between furious swipes of gigantic hands and snapping teeth to dispatch the titans Eren's can't fight. They're an excellent team like this. Brother and sister fighting the monsters from beyond the Walls while Armin watches for -

Him. Or her, doesn't really matter. It's a rush of brown and white leathers propelled by cables and gas aimed straight at Eren's unprotected back, the unicorn blazing clear against its back. Armin allows himself to drop from the tower without use of the gear. He falls silently. Uncontrolled. The shorter blades he uses for this kind of attack click into place and - there! He fires one hook straight at the ground, pulling him down faster than gravity would normally allow onto the back of the MP. The blade strikes true before the man, apparently, even notices he's there. Dead. Armin releases the hook, firing his left at Eren for a quick lift up before disengaging and retreating back to the water tower. He wipes the blood off on his pants leaving streaks of red behind.

* * *

"Hello!" One of the kids is banging on the door. He's been going at it for the past twenty minutes. "_Hello!_ Lemme out! I need t' pee!" Each time he hits the door it rattles more on its hinges. Hinges that must be getting old. Bianca has heard full grown men throw themselves at the door without so much as a shiver from the surrounding walls. One little kid is not strong enough to bother the door. The hinges must be getting old, very old. Loose even. They'll have to fix that later. "I really, really, really need t' _pee_eeeeee_eeeeeeeee_!"

"Make it stop whining!" Coalman snarls. He broke fifteen minutes ago, sliding down the wall with his hands pressed over his ears. Bianca notes that children are a weakness of his. Could be useful.

A particularly hard thump is echoed by a faint cracking, splintering sound. Was that the door? No. "If you don't lemme out, I'll pee out the door! I can! I _need _to _pee!_"

And that is not something Bianca wants to clean up. Nope. Not at all. The floor isn't exactly even; it tilts towards the opposite wall for ease of cleaning. She swirls and yanks the door open. "Listen here, you little insect!" she snaps. "You will shut up. You will walk to that toilet over there, leave the curtain open, pee, and hurry your insignificant ass back into this cell. Then - "

"Now Mikasa!"

A small dark blur flits from the shadowed cell, ducking in front of the boy and too the side. One small foot darts out. It impacts the side of Bianca's knee, snapping it inwards. The woman screams. She goes down hard on the floor, scrambling along her pants for her gun, a knife, anything! Coalman roars to life, gun drawn and aimed at the girl - the girl who is fast on her feet with quick hands, Bianca's knife already secure within her grasp. The boy throws himself in the path of the gun.

The shot rings out.

The boy drops, choking.

Coalman gasps wetly, one hand pressed to this throat where the handle of Bianca's knife glints dark with blood. The woman watches as he falls, watches the girl's dark eyes to see if she knows what she did. This girl. She's just a child. No. Not a child. She's a demon. She has to be a demon, there's no other way she could have made that throw with that knife. A knife not made for flying. A quick move, a sharp sound - flesh striking flesh, Bianca realizes, and she can't take in more air, falling sideways, throat bruised from the force of the hit.

"Stay," the demon-girl orders. She sidles across the distance to Coalman, the man still choking on metal, kicking the gun far away from either adult. Where are the other two? Jeremy and Baker. They should have hear the shot. Right? The house isn't soundproof. A tiny hand reaches out to brush Coalman's sweat drenched face. "I skinned the last person who shot my brother," she croons. "Consider yourself lucky." She rips the knife from the soft flesh of the dying man's neck, red spraying everywhere, and plunges it up through his jaw. Out again and down, handle buried an inch deep in Coalman's chest. His heart. He's not even twitching.

Delicately removing the blade from the dead man's corpse, the demon-girl turns back to Bianca. Blood, viscous smears and drops of red, decorates her expressionless face, eyes cold. This isn't the first time this demon-girl has killed. She said so herself. Bianca edges her good foot away from the spreading pool of blood. Pain throbs from her broken knee, lancing up and down her leg in sharp bursts. "Please," she says. Tried to say. Fails at even getting a whisper past the swelling in her throat.

Thunder rains down from the upper story, Jeremy and Baker bursting in to find the small girl they picked up kneeling on Bianca's chest, her hands and face covered in blood so thick there's hardly any skin left clean. The boy is dead, thrown against the wall in a heap of tangled limbs and blood. Coalman slumps in a lake of the stuff, face slack and torn open. Bianca - the girl slashes down and Bianca is dead, shuddering a few times as she tries and fails to breathe past the gaping hole in her neck.

"Well, that's inconvenient," the blonde boy remarks, breaking the silence. He's leaning on the door frame for support. The two men stare at him incredulously. "I had been hoping we'd at least get upstairs before you noticed something was wrong."

"_What the fuck_?" Baker explodes, charging across the room like an enraged elephant. He yanks the boy up by his shirt, casually backhanding the girl to the ground as he passes. The muzzle of his gun presses red spots into the kid's face. The blonde looks unfazed. "_How - why - fuck!"__  
_

The blonde coughs. He coughs again, entire body shaking with the force. Baker leans back in disgust. "S-sorry. M'sick. Sorta. See, we're trying to escape. You just happen to be in our way. Heh, this isn't the first time we've been kidnapped, just the first time anyone has been stupid enough to put us in the same room."

Distracted by the crazy blonde kid, neither Baker nor Jeremy see the girl strip Bianca of her weapons. Nor do they see her press a few into the dead boy's hands. A boy who isn't as dead as they think, because he springs up underneath Baker, knives impacting somewhere below his ribs and dragging down under the weight of the kid. Baker and the blonde fall as the girl launches herself off the wall and into Jeremy. His head cracks on the cement from the force of her blow, bouncing up again to bang one last sound before death.

Armin scrambles away from Eren. The brunette isn't all there, his eyes glowing green as he yells, stabbing the dead man over and over, his intestines already leaking onto the floor and filling the room with a foul smell. Mikasa ignores their brother, riffling through the pockets of the man at her feet. She comes up with a cell phone. "Leave him, Armin," she instructs, dialing 911. The connection clicks.

"911, please state your emergency."

"Hello? Um, we need help, please." Eren stops mid stab, both boys looking over to stare at Mikasa in shock. They didn't know that she could sound quite to small and terrified. They would rather not know that. She smirks at them, switching the phone to speaker.

"Where are you, sweetie? What happened?" dispatch asks.

"I dunno. A house? Scary man took us and there's so much - I don't know what to do! I'm scared!" Eren scoots off the dead man, a little disconcerted. Mikasa sounds close to tears, but her face is still impassive. He pokes her cheek. She swats his hand away with a glare.

"Calm down, sweetie, I need you to stay on the phone, alright? I'm sending some officers over right now. Is there anyone with you? Are you hurt?"

A little hiccuping noise echoes around the room. "I'm not, but Armin's sick. Eren, are you hurt?" She glares at him, glares at the steam pouring from his mouth and out of his back.

"No," he mumbles, attempting to copy her frightened child voice. He's not as good at it and Armin snickers, breaking into coughs. Mikasa raises a skeptical eyebrow. 'You were shot,' she mouths. "I'm fine, Mikasa. Knock it off."

"Easy kids. It's going to take Are you somewhere safe?"

The trio glances around the room, taking in their blood soaked forms and the veritable lake of red on the floor. They glance up at the stairs. "Not really," Armin hedges. His face is all scrunched up in thought. Eren wraps an arm around his waist when the blonde begins listing to one side. "We don't know when Kenny will be back."

* * *

This is probably the most stressful call Freddie Micks has ever taken in his twenty years of working dispatch. Three kids hang on the other line. Terrified. keep talking about a scary man and arguing that one of the boys, Armin - Armin Arlert, the report says. Eight years old, parents murdered, missing for ten days now - is sick while the other one might be hurt. Eren, Micks thinks the kid's name it. There's a new report on his desk about an Eren Jeager, seven, who went missing this morning. It says there was an intent to contact, but nothing yet. The girl is a complete mystery. No report, no file, nothing with the name Mikasa that he can find.

"Who's Kenny?" he asks, just to keep them talking. The closest car is more than thirty minutes out still. Wherever these kids are, it's in the middle of nowhere. He's surprised they have service. Speaking of service, where did they get the phone?

Silence meets his query and he worries something might have happened. Then, "Scary man," they say as one, small voices hateful in a way Micks never thought he'd hear from children. "Kenny Ackerman," the boy he thinks might be Armin continues. Coughing noises crackle over the line. "He hurt mommy and I tried to run, but he got me. Don't remember much. I got really sick."

Micks searches the name in the database, encouraging the kids to find someplace safe to wait. Nothing comes up. Wait. No, there is something. Kenny Ackerman was a suspect in a series of murders down in Virginia a few years ago. Evidence pointed to a different man, but Ackerman is still on file. He radios the officers speeding towards the kids. "Go faster! Suspect was questioned for a multiple homicide several years ago. He's still out there. The kids two of the kids have been reported missing already." Twenty minutes until they arrive.

He keeps the kids talking, asking where they're hiding, what they can see. They talk about corn fields and a basement. Eren complains about being sticky. Armin mocks him for sounding like someone called Levi. Mikasa suggests they she can find a garden hose to rise off with, but Micks encourages them to stay where it's safe. "Why are you sticky?" he asked at some point during the discussion. An awkward silence engulffed the kids and they were quick to change the subject, Armin describing the clouds and what types they were. Not exactly subtle, but they're traumatized kids. He'll let them keep secrets. The cars are five minutes out when a new voice cuts in.

"You three made quite a mess of my employees," it drawls and Micks twitches away from the sound of the phone falling to the ground. "Hello Eren Jeager. It's nice to see you again."


	15. Oh the Thinks You can Think

**Early because I have things to do today.**

Oh the Thinks You can Think

"Something big is coming, Eren," Kenny sneers. He's holding the exhausted, injured boy against his chest as if Eren is an actual child. Mikasa groans, clawing her way upright, eyes bright with fury and tears. She hurts. She hurts so much. A booted foot pressed into her stomach knocks her down again. Armin lays several feet away. He's coughing damply into the yellow grass. In the distance sirens burn the air. Each second that brings them closer is another second caught at the mercy of Kenny Ackerman. Kenny the Ripper. Captain in the military police. "Are you ready for it?"

Eren hits the ground hard, the wind knocked out of him. He lays where he landed and watches the man disappear into the corn fields with hatred simmering low in the back of his mind. Kenny had known, had seen. Had taken perverse pleasure in targeting the mostly healed area under bullet wound. His abdomen feels like a solid mass of bruise. He fingers the hem of his torn and bloodied shirt, hesitant to check on it. Too tired to check.

They'd gone down too easy. Weak.

"Dick," Armin grumbles. He's worked his way on to his hands and knees, crawling over the prickly grass to Eren's side. Armin is the least injured of the three of them. He hadn't the energy to attack time and again only to get brushed off like an insect. That's what Mikasa did. Even with her knives, which Kenny quickly disposed of by tossing them deep into the corn, she hadn't been able to land a hit on the former serial killer. Eren did worse. Trapped in Kenny's grip he'd been as helpless as a child against a titan.

Armin lifts his brother's shirt and winces. The skin of Eren's stomach is has already turned a light purple-blue that is steadily getting darker. The star-burst of recently healed scar tissue broke open at some point during the beating. It is weakly hissing steam, but it is obvious that whatever kept Eren healing has been overworked. The blonde presses down on the bruise in several locations. Everything is still squishy like it should be, so his brother isn't bleeding internally at least. Two of his ribs on the right side are broken and not healing.

Eren prods at his left canine, grimacing as it wiggles more than it should. He hasn't lost any teeth in this life. Other kids, the ones at the school he only sometimes is allowed to attend, have lost teeth. They brag about the tooth fairy visiting and exchanging the teeth for money. It seems a strange system. Who would want to collect teeth? "'ick," he echoes, fingers still in his mouth. He throws an arm in Mikasa's general direction, gesturing for the girl to join their pity party. He wants balloons. And cake. Food. Food sounds wonderful. Like cake.

He might have a concussion.

"You aren't healing," Mikasa whispers. She's cradling her arm on her knees, blinking slightly whenever she moves it. Other than that, the blood hides much of the bruising. "Why?"

Eren sighs, wheezing slightly at the end. Armin lowers his shirt carefully. "Tired," he moans, rolling so that his face is pressed into Mikasa's thigh. He can't see her this way, but that's alright. Feeling is fine. Armin shifts until he's curled up at Eren's back, knees drawn up along the other boy's spine. This isn't their best effort in the art of snuggling, but it's all the have energy for. Touching. Touching is good. "Hungry. I, if I don't eat enough, especially after a major healing, I can't keep it up." Little whips of steam escape his mouth at he speaks. "Everything's working at keeping my insides working. The outside doesn't matter that much." He huffs a little laugh. "We're lucky the bullet went through or I'd be coughing up lead."

"Bullets aren't made out of lead anymore," Armin complains and joins in with a shaky giggle. This time it doesn't end with coughing. They all consider it a success. Mikasa flails her uninjured hand at his blonde head, but mostly ends up smacking Eren's shoulder repeatedly. All three of them dissolve into adrenalin-fueled giggles, the edges boarding on hysterical.

That is how the Officer Jones finds them. A trio of madly giggling children piled together in dried yellow grass, the setting sun casting long shadows on their blood-caked faces. Or, the blonde boy, Armin Arlert, is mostly clean, but the other two look to have been dipped in red. It hasn't dried yet, that much is obvious. The two make strange sliding-ripping-squelching noises when the move.

"Children," Jones says. He isn't quite certain how he should handle this. Handle them. Three sets of eyes, dark in the shadows, flick over to look at him, the laughter abruptly dying. It's disconcerting the way they tense up. He can see that they're exhausted and hurt and probably traumatized, but they still gather themselves as if to fight. Cornered animals. He hurries on. "I'm Officer Jones. I'm the police. You're safe now."

He goes to take a step towards them when the girl lets out a burst of incredulous laughter. It's sharper than their earlier giggles, cutting harshly through the late even air. It makes Jones pause. He's heard that sound before, from his grandfather who suffers aching joints and fought in a war. From gun wielding teenagers selling drugs on the streets to stay alive. World weary and disbelieving that maybe there is a place without fighting. Without pain. A place where they can relax and let their guard down, just for a minute. Jones looks into the eyes of the tiny girl curled on the grass and sees all of that and more. It saddens him.

"We're going to let the ambulance through in a few minutes," he tries again. "Will you come with me to the front of the house? We can get you cleaned up a bit."

It's a tempting offer. The darker two look to the blonde, who shrugs. "Eren? Mikasa?"

"I'm fine," the boy offers quickly, glaring as if daring them to contradict.

The girl scowls, but says, "I can walk," and the trio somehow manages to stand, propped up on one another like penguins against the cold. The blonde is in the middle leaning heavily on the other two as if they are all that is keeping him upright. The girl has one arm wrapped around his waist and her other arm pressed tight to her middle. Broken? The second boy looks about ready to fall over, but he straightens his shoulders and bears the blonde's weight without a word. Each breath is shallow. Jones finds that worrying.

"If you'll show us the way, Officer Jones?" the blonde asks.

* * *

Eren stands guard over his friends, occasionally stuffing another protein bar - the disgusting, fake chocolate flavor and the best thing he has ever tasted - in his mouth. With the food comes a burst of healing. Bruises fade and skin knits back together. His rubs pop into place with a painful throb. His organs, punctured by the bullet almost two hours ago now, ache a little, but that's only residual. It will fade by the time he sleeps tonight, which won't be long after he runs out of food. Mikasa reaches out and snags the last bite of his current bar. Her face twists in disgust, obviously torn between spitting it out and needing food. Food wins out over flavor as it has the last three times she's done that. Eren snickers at her.

"You could take a nap," he suggests. An elbow to the side tells him exactly what she thinks of that. Armin is already asleep between them, too worn out stay conscious longer than it took them to find a convenient car to lounge against. One of the officers was kind enough to open the door for them. Not that they went in, but the thought counts.

It has been an interesting hour. The police arrived just moments after Kenny fucking Ackerman left. Eren may have to keep Armin's name for the man. It fits. And adds a satisfying ring that just Kenny the Ripper never managed to grasp. The ambulance was late, caught up in some traffic jam just off the freeway. When it did arrive, Armin refused to allow anyone with a needle near him and Mikasa kept filching sharp things from the many squirrel-pockets she found as the EMT wrapped her arm. It's a strange day when _Eren_ is the best behaved of the three of them. He allowed the medical person to poke at him and take his temperature before disappearing back to Armin's side where the blonde had practically collapsed under the police car.

They had laughed when a younger officer ran from the house, hand over his mouth, to puke in some bushes. Several others were looking pale and uncomfortable, edging around the trio of kids as if they will suddenly go crazy and start attacking everyone. Eren is very careful not to mention how they planned the murders beforehand.

A sleek, black car practically nudges a couple of cruisers out of the way as it parks. Eren watches it out of the corner of his eye, more concerned that Armin has started shivering. It's not exactly cold. Even with the sun setting, heat lingers in the air like a suffocating shroud. MIkasa places a hand on their brother's forehead, whispering about a fever. That she'll get one of the EMT's. He might be easier to handle now that he's asleep. Eren nods reluctantly, turning to keep her in sight.

"-still don't see why the fuck we're here," a slightly familiar voice growls a fair distance away. It's wrong almost as much as it's right, something about the pitch grating on his nerves without a face to put with it.

"We're here as a favor - "

"_LEVI!" _Eren shouts, eyes wide and excited. Ecstatic. He's up and scrambling around the cars, running full speed at a short man in a long, dark coat. It has to be him. It can't be anyone but him! Eren crashes into the man, arms wrapped tight around whatever body part he managed to grab, sending Levi stumbling back several steps before he manages to regain his balance. It's been too long since he's last seen the man.


	16. Nope

**IMPORTANT: I got in trouble, so my computer is being taken away for a while. I'm not sure how long. That's why you're getting this chapter now. I'll update as soon as I can, promise.**

Nope

Levi drives. His is the only car no one dares leave food wrappers in. There are also no fingerprints on the windows or grease stains on the seats. It's clean. Probably cleaner than the day he bought it. And since it looks just like the FBI-provided cars, he is allowed to use it. So Levi drives. Erwin lounges back in the passenger seat, rubbing absently at his right arm. Levi has snapped at him several times that the arm is not missing now, _you idiot_, get over it, but it never does anything but make the former commander pause, blink, and smile a little. Condescending prick.

Levi doesn't even know why they're going to this nowhere town more than an hour out from the office. Okay, the hour isn't that bad. Mostly a smooth trip and Erwin stuck a siren on the top for better maneuverability in traffic. Levi appreciates that. He despises traffic. All the exhaust from idling cars clings to his skin like the sewer water where he grew up - the first time -didn't linger quite at tenaciously. It washed off, at least. Living in the city is a never ending nightmare that refuses to erase itself from his memory.

It's not quite dark when they arrive. The sun has paused in its eternal path through the sky, casting long red shadows through golden fields of corn. Corn, really? They're at a farm? What could possibly be so interesting at a farm? At least the air's cleaner out here. Marginally, he reevaluates, stepping out of the air conditioned car to face the copper scented air. More than twenty feet from the house and he can smell the carnage. Shivering in revulsion, Levi turns to a frowning Erwin. "This place is shit," he drawls, glaring. "I still don't see why the fuck we're here."

Erwin twitches out of his scowl, something vaguely amused crossing his face before it disappears under several layers of serious-FBI-agent. Levi hates that expression. It looks nothing like his friend's commander-face. Stupid as that face was with his caterpillar eyebrows and too-perfect-for-you hair. Now he's more... brown. Not quite as sunshine blonde. It's annoying looking up expecting to see one person only to get a slightly imperfect copy.

"I told you, we're here as a favor - " Erwin beings, only to get cut off by a shrilly shouted, "_LEVI!_" and suddenly Levi finds himself attacked by miniature human that looks to be more dirt than child. For a second, he cannot breathe and he cannot stand, hands flying out to catch something and only managing air. Then he regains his footing, cursing slick shoes. No matter what surface they're on, they always slip. Levi's left standing several feet back from where he started, arms out and lips curled into a disgusted sneer. He stares at the messy hair, the owner of which is attempting to bury its face in his clean white shirt.

He blinks. Takes a deep breath. Remembers that swearing at children is frowned up in this time, as is hitting or otherwise forcefully removing them from his person without him having to use his hands. Erwin, the bastard, is laughing. He could be helping remove this... thing, but no. He has to be amused.

"Eren?" A small, blonde, and eerily familiar head pokes over the hood of a police car. It's been too more years than Levi cares to admit since he's seen that particular face. "Levi!" Of course, the voice is completely wrong for the person it belongs to. Kiddish. Squeaky. It was hard enough dealing with the brats when they were teenagers, let alone actual bratlings. "Mikasa! Levi's here!"

"I heard," the girl practically spits, sauntering up beside the blonde and glaring at Levi like he's the cause of all bad things.

If those two are over there then - Levi tugs the boy's hair until a too-wide grin and gleaming turquoise eyes beam up at him. "Let me go, you shitty brat." Because fuck social conventions, that's why. It's not like Eren is an actual kid. Just a facsimile. An adult mind trapped in the body of a child.

Eren does as he's told, for once. He's still grinning, nearly bouncing in place. In one day he has his brother, his sister, _and _Levi back. And Erwin, but they weren't close. Not really. Sure, a week ago Eren would have thought running into Erwin the greatest thing to ever happen, but not with his three favorite people present. "Hi Levi," he whispers, practically vibrating out of his skin.

Levi glares down at the brat, inspecting his shirt for damage. The white cloth is smeared with something red-ish brown. The same substance that is caked on Eren's face. "What," he pronounces, "exactly are you covered in?"

"Um." Eren's enthusiasm dwindles until the brat is shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. He sucks his lip between his teeth. "Um, well, it might be blood."

"_Might?_"

"Oh come on!" And there's the idiot Levi had known. After several years of working side by side, Eren stopped treating Levi as his superior. Levi responded by treating Eren like he was five, not nearing twenty, and things grew from there. He hadn't quite expected the relationship to transfer over, especially as Eren is now... small. Really small. It's weird looking down to see him. The boy huffs. "We were kidnapped, sir. They-"  
_"Shut up_," MIkasa hisses, slapping her hand over Eren's mouth and scowling at Levi like it's his fault her brother can't keep quiet. The surrounding police officers, all people not in the know, stare wide-eyed at the band of FBI agents and previously kidnapped children. Levi sneers at them.

Erwins turns with his I'm-charming-trust-me smile overlapping the usual professional quirk he wears when meeting other departments. "Special Agent Ackerman has known Eren since he was born," he lies smoothly. It is, however, an explanation the officers seem willing to accept. The idiots don't even question why Erwin would know that. Or why the other two also seem to know Levi. This world is filled with incompetent morons. "Now, will someone explain what happened here? I'm afraid Officer Parks barely had time to invite us down here."

With Erwin distracting the masses, Levi gathers the three not-children over by the ambulance, politely requesting a better way to clean them up than a garden hose and demanding all of their medical information. The first gets a blink and a couple of towels. The second gets an barely adequite summary of injuries and ailments. One sprained arm, multiple bruises, minor cuts, and a fever. Also, a handful of missing sharp objects and a strong aversion to needles. Eren doesn't appear to have any injuries, which Levi finds hard to believe. The brat's reckless. He would have gotten hurt at some point. Unless - he keeps his mouth shut. None of the kids felt safe enough to let the medical personnel near them for too long.

"Grumpy," Levi gestures at Mikasas, the girl snarling at the title, "let them check your leg. You were limping. Blondie, sit there. Tell them what's wrong with you so that they can fix it. Shitty brat-" he ignores the appalled looks the two adults give him - "you are going tell me what happened while I get you cleaned up." Gathering himself against touching the tacky blood with his bare hands, Levi lifts Eren into his arms and marches away. His shirt is already ruined.

Which is when Erwin calls them back to the front of the house, requesting Eren talk to his mother. He's smiling too, the smug bastard. All the teasing Levi received in the past about being _fatherly_ towards the brat is going to reappear. Worse, too. It will be worse. Because Eren is tiny now, a child in body if not in mind. Once Petra and the others find out he won't hear the end of it. Ever.

Fuck.


	17. Dream a Dream So Pretty

**It's late. I'm sorry. But you'll get another one sometime today.**

**This is the end of Arc 1**

Dream a Dream So Pretty

Mikasa raised one frothy red hand, wet with soap and blood and water, dragging it deliberately down the side of Levi's face. Why not? He's not her commanding officer anymore. He can't do anything to her unless he wants to jeopardize his job or risk jail time. And, judging by the whispers floating around, she is a _traumatized child, poor baby, I wish there was something I could do to help._ Mikasa could do whatever she wanted, including take all of Levi's clothes, throw them in the mud, and stomp on them until the dirt is too ground in to even bleach clean, and Levi would probably still get talked to about yelling at her.

Not that she's going to do that. No. She's just here to make a point - a point she never got to make last time.

With Levi still paralyzed in disgusted horror at what she just did, the girl smirks and makes certain to smear the froth within millimeters of his mouth and down onto his neck. Her other hand leaves a bright red print on his shoulder which she had been using to balance. Yes. That should do it.

Levi twitches. His eyes narrow. His shoulders tighten with useless energy, blood singing that he do something to make this insolent girl pay - but there are cameras here. As much as he might want to deck the gloomy brat, which he is going to do, eventually, when he won't get arrested for child abuse or some shit like that because Mikasa Ackerman is not a fucking child, he can't. Not yet, at least. _  
_

She opens her mouth, threat prepared.

"Levi! Mikasa! Glad to see that you're getting along so well," Erwin bloody well _chirps._ He chirps! Like he's some flitting little school kid hyped up on sugar. Levi and Mikasa turn to stare, shock and morbid confusion shining bright in their eyes. Erwin's smile does not match the chirping. It's not even a smile. Cold dread trickles down their spines, Erwin smirking sadistically at them from where he's leaning on a desk. Levi twitches again.

Levi growls, "_Don't you fucking dare!"_ just as Erwin purrs, "Congradulations, you're cousins. Levi, as next of kin you will be taking Mikasa home with you tomorrow." Then he saunters off, unreasonably pleased with himself.

Mikasa shudders. "I need a shower," she says. Levi watches her walk away to rejoin the boys in the bathroom.

He twitches.

* * *

Erwin bundles the kids in towels, herding them into the back seat of Levi's car despite the younger man's disgruntled quirk of the shoulders. And vehement disagreement that, "Hell no. The brats can go to the hospital like normal patients and not cover my car in their filth." Unfortunately for Levi, Erwin has more votes than he does it situations like this and herds the kids into the car. Eren says sorry for getting blood all over the upholstery. Armin falls asleep almost immediately and doesn't say anything. Mikasa glares, but settles for curling around her brothers to sleep. Without a constant food source, Eren isn't far behind.

In the distance, the city looms in a bright bubble of yellow light. Stars disappear around it. Magnificent as they are, the tiny lights are no match for the blaze of electricity and sleeplessness that is their home. Current home. Erwin rubs his right arm. Though the thin fabric he can feel a slight shift between scar tissue and skin. A scar he was born with.

"Did the Walls ever look like that?" he asks suddenly. Levi glances at him, glances back to the city, and shrugs.

"Don't know. I never got that far."

* * *

"Put them with the other one," a Wall Seeker order, shoving to wide-eyed civilians at an underling.

The agent grumbles. "_Which_ other one," she demands. One of the civilians, the male one, tugs on his handcuffs. she zaps him with her shock-stick. There is probably a technical name for it, but she likes shock-stick. It gets the point across the prisoners that much faster.

Pressing a hand against a slate wall, her superior glares. "The one that eats people," he snarks, sarcasm dribbling from his tongue like oil. "The crazy one, you moron!" He huffs off leaving the agent to make faces at his back.

"We feed enough civilians to the cannibal to pardon my confusion," she mutters resentfully to the wide-eyed man and woman. They're slightly younger than the normal crowd. The perishable crowd. Maybe that's why they are being kept? Nah. They probably know something they shouldn't, that's all. She prods them with her shock-stick. Like cattle, they begin to lumber forwards. "Heh, Collins really has you drugged up, doesn't he? You had Peter for interrogation, yeah? No wonder. Really, things would have gone much smoother is you just told us what we want."

"Can't," the woman sighs, quiet through the film of pain killers. Peter does a good job at hiding his work. "Can't. Not safe, can't."

"Oh shaddup," the agent grouses, prodding again with the stick.

The other one, the crazy one, has a room by itself. Mostly. Sometimes it has its privacy invaded by civilians like these two, but not often. She opens its door, shoving the man and woman inside.

"Visitors, freak," she informs the pair of glasses gleaming out of the darkness. She closes the door before the grin forms - too many teeth and too bright.

* * *

Levi is clean. Finally. It took ages to scrub off the exhaust and..._concoction_ the gloomy brat spread all over his face. His shirt was deemed a lost cause, as were the towels. His pants and coat, both black, thankfully, he decided could be worn again after several rounds through the washing machine. His washing machine. The one at his house. The one at the office probably made things dirtier.

The office where he is being forced to stay, sleeping on the couch in a spare set of clothes. He can't even sanitize the couch. Stupid floral print and scratchy fabric. If his skin wasn't itching from the dirt, the feel of that fabric against his bare arms might just drive him insane. More insane. He is not Mikasa's cousin. He doubts they are even related! Just because they have the same last name. Levi's last name isn't even his! He stole it from Kenny when he was a kid in his previous life. If anything, the girl is related to Kenny, not him.

Except Erwin, the jerk, is apparently as master at falsifying paperwork and now Levi is legally Mikasa's closest living relative and cousin. He checked. Erwin can go live in a fucking public port-a-potty.

Levi throws an arm over his eyes, blocking out the dim flickering of florescent lights. No better than candles, those. Well, they don't leave wax everywhere, so that's a plus. But the flickering.

Something small pokes his shoulder. It does it again. And again. Each poke gets slightly harder, subsequently harder to ignore. Groaning internally, Levi snaps, "What?" and is rewarded with to small hands on his arm. Better than poking, he supposes, but someone is touching him. One of the brats. No one else is small enough. And Erwin wouldn't be quite so juvenile as to poke him repeatedly until he answered. Probably.

"Where are we supposed to sleep?" Eren asks quietly. Of course it's him. Mikasa wouldn't care about his opinion and Armin, despite working together for so long, still gets twitchy about annoying superior officers. Past tense. Whatever. No one cares.

"Does it look like I give a shit?" Levi returns, flapping an ineffective hand at Eren's head. He misses, less hitting and more fingertips brushing hair because he's too far away and too tired to give a damn. Eren is quiet. Levi sighs, his arm flopping across his stomach. All he wants to do as sleep. If these brats keep him up wanting to reminisce or some shit like that, he will stuff them all in a blender, hit puree, and bake them into a pie. He'll feed it to Erwin.

Small hands gently grab his wrist, lifting it and pulling, a counter balance to the weight of a child climbing awkwardly up the side of the couch. Small and warm, Eren tucks himself neatly under Levi's arm, between the man and the back of the couch. He doesn't quite fit, half of him sprawled atop the former captain's chest like a blanket. Levi lift the arm over his eyes to stare at the mess of dark hair fanning over his shoulder.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he ask. Demands. There is nothing about his voice that is soft. And he is seriously contemplating dumping the shitty brat on the floor. Yes. That is exactly what he is going to do.

Fingers tighten in his shirt. "You said sleep wherever," comes the muffled reply.

"No. I didn't."

A lengthy pause in which Levi does not feel Eren snuggling deeper into his shoulder. "I'm taking advantage of the fact that I'm seven, sir," the not-child whispers. Levi barely hears him. Pretends he doesn't hear and replaces the arm over his eyes. He's tired. Too tired to shove a brat off the couch. That would take a lot of effort. Beside, he'd have to get a blanket if Eren left. Really, it's in Levi's best interest to let the kid stay.

Levi may or may not drift off to sleep with the comforting motion of Eren's tiny chest rising and falling under his hand. He may or may not sleep though two other brats wandering in to look for Eren. He probably doesn't sleep through the same two brats creeping onto the couch as well, although it is a possibility.

He definitely sleeps though Erwin taking several pictures to post on Facebook. There is no way in any universe that Levi would allow pictures of himself draped in tiny children to appear online. Or at all. Erwin's precious camera would have been destroyed immediately. But Levi slept thought that.

Petra spends twenty minutes commenting and liking each one, going so far as to setting the cutest as Levi's profile picture. She, and the rest of the team, made his Facebook, after all. They log on occasionally to make rude status updates. Usually something Levi actually said.

* * *

Kalura storms into the building, pausing only briefly to speak to a receptionist and find the correct floor. Grisha trails after her, just as terrified and desperate to see their son, but amused at his wife. Eren is with the FBI. He's safe now. Not even hurt. Otherwise he'd be at a hospital.

Twelve flights of stairs, or, twelves floors riding and elevator with an anxious, pacing mother, and they're in the correct office, bursting around a corner to see -

Eren's smiling, laughing, wrestling on the floor with a dark haired girl around his age, obviously losing and completely okay with that. There is a blonde boy propped up on the side of a desk giggling madly into his hands. Eren and the girl are careful not to get too close to him while they play. It's the first time they've seen Eren this happy since he was a toddler. Not even Anka got more than a pleased smile. And these two kids... Eren doesn't get along with kids. He hates them, glaring and fighting with anyone who dares get in his way. He put one of his classmates in the hospital. Nothing serious, mind, but still.

Anger issues. Antisocial personality. Blackouts. Memory loss. A minor learning disability. Possible depression. The list goes on. Doctor after doctor added more and more to Eren's disorders. And yet, here he is, acting like a normal kid and connecting with others for the first time in four years.

Kalura...resents them. She hates herself for it, but she's jealous of these two children who managed to do what she could not.

"Kalura and...Grisha Jeager, yes?" a tall blonde man inquires, appearing suddenly at their side and deftly stepping in front of the children. Protective. All the kids freeze, turn sharp eyes to Grisha. Her husband blinks at the sudden scrutiny. The girl stands, pulling Eren and the other boy to their feet, and leads them away.

Kalura blinks. "Carla, please," she responds, a bit late. Grisha shakes the man's hand. "You are?"

"Special Agent Erwin Smith, but please, call me Erwin. If you'll follow me to my office, I'll explain the situation to you." He gestures to a door off to the side of the room. Closed. Nondescript. Unobtrusive. Little white letters spell out SMITH at the bottom of a window. Lowered blinds further isolate the office from the main room.

"We just want our son back, Agent Smith," Grisha declares. He's looking to where the children disappeared off to. "I'm sure the others parents are wanting their children, too."

Agent Smith studies Grisha with cool eyes, a fixed smile plastered across his face. It's nowhere near convincing and the exact opposite of comforting. "That's where things get a little complicated. My office?"

In the office, he explains a bit about Kenny Ackerman - a serial killer turned gang boss. He explains about the WCR and Mikasa's parents. Arrested, he says, for the murder of one of their officers. How Ackerman killed Armin's - the blonde - parents the night the boy was kidnapped. That Ackerman was actually looking for Eren. That Ackerman is still out there. How the kids _killed_ the four people holding them hostage. Her son. He killed someone. How the kids are fairly attached to each other now - bonding in a high stress environment or something like that. And, no, no, the other kids have somewhere else to go. Truely. Mikasa is Levi's cousin and Armin will be staying with Agent Smith, all perfectly legal, but with Ackerman still out there Agent Smith doesn't think that it would be a good idea to split the kids up. Trauma. It'll be good for their recovery is they know the other two are safe.

Kalura doesn't know what to think of that. She certain doesn't like the idea of the kids near her son. Her baby. Finally opening up, but not to her. He didn't even say hello. Besides, they just moved. Agent Smith and this Levi person, supposedly another agent, live a full eight hours away. She doesn't like it.

And Erwin Smith is still staring at Grisha as if her husband did something wrong.

"Maybe," Grisha starts, "maybe the kids can talk on the phone or something. They can meet up once a month? My job won't allow for us to leave and you are here in the city. It's a long drive."

Discussions go on.


	18. Recover

Recover

Armin is pinning her arms down, chest to her back and head to one side to avoid getting hit as she struggles in his grasp. Perhaps it says something that she isn't able to break away. Armin isn't exactly the strongest man they have. A few months ago it would have been simple to escape. A few months ago she wouldn't have to. Can't they just let her do what she wants? Stop dragging her down, penning her in, taking her gear and swords and forcing her to bed, keeping her down until she no longer has the energy to fight and slips into an uneasy, exhausted sleep. She'd be fine one her own! She doesn't need them! They're useless! Holding her back.

Historia - fuck her. Fuck her and Eren and Levi and Kenny Ackerman and Mikasa and Jean and everyone! Fuck them all! - drops heavily onto her thighs, too close. Sasha lunges forward, teeth snapping closed on empty air. Only Armin's hold on her arms keeps Sasha from adding to the pale red scar running down the side of the blonde woman's face. Bitch doesn't even flinch. Doesn't acknowledge the danger she's in. Just holds out a spoonful of gray glop. Porridge mixed with something spicy that makes her stomach roil, rebelling, protesting.

Sasha snaps out again, intending harm and only managing to get a mouthful of the foul substance, someone's hand locking over her mouth and nose so she can't spit it out. It tastes of ash and blood on her tongue. She chokes, thrashing, but it's three on one and she swallows it down just for the chance to breathe again. They let her.

* * *

Tiny toddler hands. Pudgy, tiny, toddler hands. They're the first things she sees upon waking up. Pudgy, tiny, toddler hands curled into pudgy, tiny, toddler fists in front of her face. They're her's. She tells them to move and they do. Counting each finger. Sitting up to tap the bars of her cage. There's a blanket, soft, puddled at her tiny toddler feet. Something bulky wraps around her groin, which, no. That's not staying on. Cage or no, tiny toddler or no, she is not peeing in some contraption like an infant. She's a soldier. A fighter. Not a baby. Even if she looks like one.

A few good tugs on flimsy little tabby things removes the device and she's left standing naked in her cage. That is also not acceptable. As much as she doesn't care about being naked, she is tiny and in unfamiliar territory. Neither of which are particularly acceptable, but it's not like she can change the situation. The soft blanket, tiny like she is, ties neatly around her throat like a cape.

Hunger gnaws on her stomach - did that wake her up? Strange. She's slept through worse hunger pains than this before. They're not bad until they're crippling and she's forced to eat or risk failing the mission. Failing is never a good thing. Not when Levi was captain and definitely not now that Armin is. She failed once, and he partnered her one every mission for months.

Escaping might be a problem. Tiny toddler limbs don't always work the way she wants with the finer details. Like gripping. She grabs two of the bars near the corner, hands high up, and walks her feet up the on in the middle. She gets maybe halfway before her hands slip. She falls. Her back bounces on the thin mattress for a third time. Frustrated tears gather in her eyes, but she brushes them away. Stupid baby body with its stupid baby emotions. She tries again and again, each time falling and getting more frustrated at her lack of success.

The window outside her cage is bright with sunlight - what kind of prison is this? - when the main door opens and a man comes in. He looks like her father. But he's wrong. His face is wrong and his voice is wrong and he moves wrong. He's soft. And nothing he says makes sense. Cooing and smiling and speaking words in no language Sasha picks her up like a baby, laughing at the cape, dressing her in a new contraption and then actual _clothes. _He doesn't let her walk, scooping her up and carrying her to the kitchen where he plops her in a highchairs and wander away.

Sasha sat though all of it, her mind in a fuzzy state of shock.

He places a bowl of...something in front of her. Dry and smelling of grain, bread? Little circles of brown things, different shades. Curious. Habitual. She takes one between tiny fingers, lifting it to her nose and sniffing. Her tongue sneaks out, moisture snagging the thing, pulling it in her mouth, biting down with tiny baby teeth. Takes another and another. Eating. Tasting food. The body's habit and hunger at the fore, her own mind dazed.

_He drops through the gap. Doesn't use the maneuver gear and falls, landing on one of their pursuers. He tangles them all, spinning and twisting, reaching out with swords to cut lines from hooks. Eren and Historia are free, Sasha pulling the blonde girl up and away. Mikasa and Armin have Eren, the boy unconscious and steaming from multiple wounds. Connie manages a last pivot, slamming his elbow into an MP's face. And then there's Kenny. Kenny with his knife out, sheathed in Connie's neck and sliding sideways. Out. A spray of blood on the wall and on the floor, Connie gasping, falling, one hand to his throat where blood bubbles from between his fingers. He tries anyway. The last Sasha sees of her best friend is the boy striking out blindly at Kenny with the remains of his sword. Then she's gone and he's gone and they're away. Eren and Historia safe but Connie lost. Lost lost lost and she couldn't do anything, her hands full, leaving her friend to die. Not die. Be killed. He was killed. And she'll avenge him._

Her stomach twists, heaves, and everything she ate splatters over the table.

* * *

Sasha squirms away from her post, stalking her best friend's murders from the rooftops. Even with the maneuver gear, no one human looks up. Top predator inside the walls, they don't need to worry about attacks from above. Sasha isn't attacking, just observing. Armin never sends her one anything important within the walls anymore. He knows she won't stay if she catching sight of Kenny. (If only the monster didn't share a name with Mikasa and Levi. She'd rather no be so familiar with him.)

She pads from one roof to another, leaping the short distances to avoid making noise. The gear is loud when hunting prey that isn't titans. Human prey accustomed watching for human hunters. Accustomed to being the hunter. Knows the sound of cables cutting through city air. So Sasha watches. Waits.

It's the waiter. A man who walks too straight, paces too evenly. Balances like he's used to extra weight on his back. He shakes something over Kenny's drips something into his drink. Wine and pasta. She watches as he eat, drink, stands to shake someone's hand, but doubles over. Choking. His lips turning blue. Falling. Dead before he hits the ground.

She didn't do it, but it's enough for now, and she's so tired. So tired.

It's a week before anyone finds her body. A month before word gets back to Armin and the others.

* * *

She learns the language piece by piece. Doesn't talk until she's sure, nearly a full year after she woke up. A cake with three small candles that she wants to eat, it smells so good, but tastes like death. She can't hold anything down. Watches her father grow lines of worry around his eyes and mouth. He looks more like her father now, but that's not the point. She would rather him soft than worrying about her. There are doctor visits and tests. Conclusion: there is nothing wrong with her body.

By the time she's four, a lady lives in the house and talks to her about what's wrong. Doesn't the food smell good Sasha? Don't you want to eat it? _Yes,_ she wants to say. Yes, she does. It smells amazing. But then she'll remember Connie. Connie dying. How she couldn't save him. Didn't avenge him. Failed even though Kenny died. Murdered. Taken out by the crown because he wasn't getting the job done. She remember twenty-three years of her life and is only four. So she says nothing.

Her father enrolls her in school. She skates through first grade pale and listless. She doesn't do the work. No friends, won't talk when spoken to. The list of complaints in her file grows longer with ever passing month. Her teacher notices that she won't eat her lunch, trading sandwiches for time on the swings and sweets for boxes of crayons.

"Sasha? Do you not like your lunch?" the woman asks kindly. Everything is kind at the school. Well, except the kids, but kids are never kind. She learned that long ago. "We can ask your dad to pack something different." Kind smiles with white teeth. No one had white teeth where she came from.

Sasha flips her paper over, tracing out letters in a blue crayon. _Not hungry._ She doesn't look up, knows what she'll see there. Knows what the teacher sees. A little girl, small for her age with bone wrists and a gaunt face. Emaciated, comes to mind. It wouldn't be wrong. And by now, _not hungry_ is mostly true. Her stomach doesn't complain at the lack of food.

It's not a week later that Sasha passes out and is rushed to the hospital. By age six, hospital visits happen at least once a month, her stays edging up from days to weeks as the doctors struggle to keep her alive.

* * *

Sasha's nine, sequestered in the back of the room near her teacher's desk. There's a needle taped to her arm - a permanent IV port - and a bracelet with instructions for what to do should she pass out looped around her wrist. She's till scrawny, half a skeleton. It's her first day at school in more than a month. In her current condition, even a cold can be deadly. Her work sits half-finished before her like some sort of accusation. Math and science and history piled up on the desk. Some scribbled words, spelling optional, indicate a book report.

At the front of the room the teacher is droning on about something or other. It's early. Probably talking to a student. No one important. Sasha doodles a strawberry at the edge of her notebook. Half the notes are in English, the rest swirling around to common. It makes it a little challenging to read sometimes. Her writing system has gotten her more than a few raised eyebrows from teachers when they ask for work to be handed in. Sasha doesn't give a damn. Her grades may suck, but she still moves up with her year group and isn't shunted back to dwell with the tiny children. That would have been unbearable.

"...Connie. I'm looking forward to having to in my class this year," the teachers says. Sasha's head snaps up so fast it takes her eyes a moment to readjust, vision swimming with dizziness. _ConnieConnieConnie_ her mind repeats. And there he is. Small and young and _Connie_ standing at the front of the classroom, a woman holding his hand, smiling in bland politeness a the teacher. _  
_

Sasha doesn't remember moving. She doesn't remember throwing herself over her desk, leaping over stray backpacks and chairs and tables - obstacles in between her and a straight line to Connie. Connie who has barely had time to turn before she's barreling into him, head to his chest to hear his heart, hands pawing blindly at his throat and face and wrapping around him like an octopus because it's _Connie_ and she is never letting him go. Not again. Not ever. Not even if he doesn't remember who she is and thinks she's crazy for knocking them both onto the floor. But he's hugging her back, laughing and crying and it's then that Sasha realizes that she's sobbing in his arms.

"Sasha!" the teacher shouts, but they ignore her. They ignore her until she reaches down and attempts to pry Sasha away. The girl spins with her teeth bared, snarling and snapping at the intruding hands, and Connie is pushing them up sitting.

"Don't do that," he reprimands, frowning. His hands are around her wrists, measuring the thickness, taking in her appearance for the first time. "Sasha?"

She crumples back into his arms, allowing him to wrap her up. Allows herself to be held. To relax. Let down her guard. "You died," she whimpers in common. "You died and I couldn't do anything."

"Idiot. It was my choice."

* * *

Miss Burke has never seen Sasha Blouse eat of her own free will. Nor has she seen the girl show any interest in any of the other students. Now she watches the new boy, Connie Springer, lead her by the hand to one of the lunch tables. She watches Sasha steal bites of his sandwich and crackers and half of his juice.

Sasha doesn't get sick after.


	19. Reunited

Reunited

"She adorable isn't she?" one boy whispers. A group of them huddles around the computers where a single works his way through some game. They think she can't hear them. Normally, that would be true, as she is as the front of the room and they are at the back, but Historia has exceptional hearing and they boys are not very good at whispering.

"Who, Krista?" a second boy asks. He sounds shocked. Appalled? No, but a little incredulous. Probably one of the few who haven't fallen for her 'Krista' character. It's harder to fall back into that she expected. Fifty-five years are Queen appears to have had more of an effect on her personality than a childhood spent as Krista. But Krista is her name here so Krista she shall be. Mostly. "You're crazy! She's a bitch!"

That starts up a cacophony of protests from the surrounding boys. Historia covers a snicker, bending further over her book. European history 1200-1500. A dry topic, perhaps, but she can't control her dreams. Besides, correcting history books is amusing. It's too bad this one is a library book. She would love to run a red pen through most of this page; instead, Historia dictates her corrections in one of her many notebooks. Incorrect passage in red, corrections in back, author, book, and page number in parenthesis. All in common, of course. It's her notebook, nothing she needs for school. She'd rather not write in English if she can help it. School work is bad enough.

* * *

Historia tugs the frightfully pink dress over her head, huffing at the strands of hair that fall in front of her face. Her bangs are too long, but the one time she took a pair of scissors to them her mother threw a tantrum. _Her baby got hold of scissors! She could have killed herself! She massacred her beautiful hair!_ The noise was enough to put her of doing it ever again. And she didn't massacre her hair, just trimmed it a little. She hates not being able to see properly.

The dress swirls around knobby knees when she twists to grab a pair of long socks from a drawer. Her legs, patched up in a rainbow of band-aids, should not be seen today. Only cute children are allowed in formal photo shoots. That means long socks and no band-aids and too much makeup. She's four. She's fairly certain that she doesn't need makeup.

Historia closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and review her rules for being Krista.

_You like everyone._ This is the hardest rule to follow. She hasn't had to pretend that she likes anyone for more than thirty years. She was Queen. If she didn't like someone, she said so and they were removed. Usually by Ymir._Be kind to everyone._ Also a challenge. There are some people that she really wants to punch in the face._Keep the dreams a secret.__You are cute, not a fighter, not a Queen.__You are alone._

Perhaps not the best set of rules, but they work. She stays out of trouble on most days. She follows her mother's directions and listens to the photographer. She sits still for the makeup artists. She says her lines if they're filming. And even if she needs reminding of the other rules, number five looms over her head like a blade. _You are alone._

* * *

Historia collapses on her bed with a groan. Today was too long. Formal parties and greeting representatives from baby nations outside the Walls. She's not twenty anymore, that's for sure. Her feet are killing her.

Ymir laughs, closing the doors to their rooms. "At least you got to stay in uniform," the woman chortles. "Did you see some of those monstrosities the women were wearing? I thought they'd fall over!"

Which, Ymir has a point. Historia has refused to attend formal functions in some poofy gown or other that people seem to believe royalty must wear. It's disgusting. So she changed things. Or, rather, she ordered palace seamstresses to modify the military uniform into something a little fancier, but still practical. Black leather boots instead of the standard brown. Black maneuver gear, because she will _not_ be defenseless while surrounded by military police. Blindingly white pants and shirt, a shirt they still make foofy despite her protests, but whatever. She'll live. They were careful to make sure the ruffles don't get caught in the gear. A cloak fashioned after the survey corp uniform, only instead of the wings of freedom emblazoned on the back, a crown rules atop a shield.

Perhaps not the latest fashion, but Historia can still dance circles around the unicorn brigade. And she's fifty-three. The new recruits are getting better though. Ymir's in charge of training them. That's probably more terrifying than joining the new and improved Scouting Legion. Although, Armin's running that. It might explain why most of the new recruits join the garrison.

The last of their friends.

"You're supposed to take care of me, not laugh at my pain," the blonde grouses. She flops around until she can peek at Ymir over her arm. Still tall, still regal. Ymir is almost identical to how she looked when they were teenagers. Her hair is more gray than dark now, and her freckles stand out a little sharper, but aside from that she looks the same. Historia likes that. As often as Ymir pokes fun at her for having wrinkles, Historia is glad that her partner is not showing signs of aging. Ymir spend sixty years as a titan. There was always the chance those years would catch up with her.

Ymir snorts, removing her boots and cloak, letting both remain in a pile on the floor. "Would you like me to draw you a bath, m'lady?" she asks, sauntering over to the bed. "Massage your feet? Perhaps a full body rub for the Queen?"

Historia surrenders to a fit of giggles.

* * *

Lod Reiss is a politician. He isn't her father until she's eight and has a successful career modeling children's clothes. Not Historia's first choice, but her mother sets everything up without her input. Rude. Somewhere in there, Senator Reiss met her mother and suddenly they're married and Historia's living in a huge house with nothing to do but school and bother security. The daughter of a senator cannot be a model, no matter how cute. It's a security risk.

Bothering the guards becomes her favorite game. Historia's more than eighty after all. She should be allowed a little fun now and then. Besides, she used to play this game with the unicorn brigade. The older soldiers knew her tricks and not to worry should she suddenly disappear in the middle of a speech about equality. The younger ones though. Oh, they always freaked out. It was great fun. These guards are not used to having a child in the house and Historia takes full advantage. She learns back stairs and that one of the gas fireplaces was never finished leaving a spot to slip into the walls if you're small enough. From the walls she can access the vents. Probably not safe, but it's fun impersonating Hawkeye and dropping down on unsuspecting security guards.

Neither her mother nor Reiss find this particularly amusing, but after the first week, the guards start using it as a training exercise. If they can find her before she pranks them, they win. They do not win all that often. Historia has decades on them. An unfair advantage, yes, but she doesn't care.

* * *

Historia buries herself in her book. Fiction, this time. Pirates and adventures on the sea. Dastardly plots. A girl learning to be more than she was. It's a fun book. She remembers something Armin said once, about wanting to see the ocean. She thinks he got there, but, that was when -

Something brushes the side of her face. She swipes a hand at it, not paying attention. It brushes the other side of her face. Annoyed now, she contemplates sending an elbow into the annoyance's gut. Only, Krista doesn't do things like that. It would break the rules. She concentrates on her book. She's near the end. The girl will have to face her mother sooner or later and the choice of staying a pirate or becoming a lady looms ever closer. Personally, Historia would choose pirate. Much more fun than being a lady. Granted, she's had the lady experience already.

Her chair tips backwards. Historia only gets a second of misplaced equilibrium before someone's lips press on hers and - No. Just no. No one is allowed to do that.

She punches her assailant. In the spleen. Hard. Whoever it is falls.

"Krista!" the teacher shouts. The rest of the sixth grade class turns to stare

Because her chair was only balanced by the person holding it, History also fell, clattering to the ground in a chorus of curses no one expected to hear fly from her mouth. It takes her a moment to realize that her assailant is laughing. Very familiar laughter.

Screw happy reunions. Historia is pissed. She clambers away from the desk/chair tangle, lurching around to straddle the hyena cackling on the floor "_You stupid idiot! I would have been fine!"_ Her fists rain down on Ymir's chest with every word. The taller girl wheezes, but doesn't put up and defense. Smiles. Grins. "_Why did you do that? Tell me! You didn't have to get in the way, you -"_

It takes ten minutes and three teachers to pull Historia off from Ymir.


	20. Ring Around the Rosie

**Sorry it's late, kids. I had a migraine yesterday and spent today feeling like crap. But here's a chapter!**

Ring Around the Rosie

There's a big house on top of a hill, vineyards to the east and an apple orchard to the west. A red and white barn perches delicately two-hundred yards behind the house. as dirt path extends from the back door, through a vegetable garden, to the barn's entrance. A covered arena hunches off to one side, the open paddock closer to the house. Both are filled with the finest quality of sand. Grass as green as the sky is blue dusts the hillside. Wildflowers sprinkle the landscape with speckles of red and yellow. The house itself is grand. White siding with gray-blue accents. At night the windows glow with warm light. During the day, white curtains can be seen fluttering around on invisible breezes.

It's safe and peaceful. Everything he ever wanted back when he was stupid and twelve. Now he's twelve again and hates everything about it. Hates himself for hating it.

Jean has earned this lifestyle, okay? He's done his part. Paid his dues. He has earned some nice shit.

That doesn't stop it from feeling wrong.

Jean stomps up the drive and into the house, peeling off school shoes in favor of well worm riding boot. The brown leather is soft from months of constant use and it takes the boy just moments to slip them on. Then he's up and back out the door. His parents frown when he rides in his school uniform, but Jean really doesn't care. Perhaps his only real joy in this life is Freckle.

She meets him at the door to her stall, prancing eagerly. It's been more than a week since they went for a ride. Freckle knows the sound of the tack door unlatching. Jean always pulls out her saddle before he collects her. Her stall door clicks open with a flick of his wrist - and the removal a small clip attached to a chain because she is too clever for her own good - and Freckle skips out, winding towards the saddling station. Her hooves clatter on the hard ground.

Jean received Freckle for his fifth birthday. Young to own a horse, but his father believed in training you and that applied to both horses and children. At the time, Freckle was a golden filly; Arabian, his father said, petting the horse's nose. Gentle as a butterfly. A perfect starter horse for a young Jean.

Different breeds of horses were not a thing within the Walls. Jean hadn't known until he woke up that there were multiple breeds. He had never trained a horse before, either, so Freckle was certainly a learning experience. Two years of closely supervised groundwork followed by another year of saddle training and basic exercises, seeing as Jean was young enough not to hurt the filly's knees or back when riding. Then Jean was nine and old enough, according to his father, to ride alone in the arena so long as he told someone what he was doing.

Jean slides the saddle on the golden horse, drops the reigns around her neck, sand mounts. Freckle glides from the stables. Her strawberry mane catches the light, highlighting in sparkles of red and gold. On the grass, Jean points the mare uphill, urging her faster. Dainty hooves dip into the soft ground. She breaks into a canter, dodging the wind and tossing her head in excitement. Jean shouts, cheering. He ducks over her neck as she charges up the hill.

This, riding Freckle, is his one connection to the past he had. It's not quite flying and it's not running from titans atop a panicked beast, but it stirs his blood. (Maybe, even if he doesn't deserve the rest of it, he has earned Freckle. Earned the wind in his hair and every wild ride she takes him on.)

* * *

"Very little is known about the time Humanity spent within the Walls. Most of it is classified, protected by the WCR. However, you kids are lucky enough to live here! Our museum has worked with the WCR before and is allowed to displayed a select few artifacts - "

Jean tunes the guide out, fumbling at his hood for the headphones he'd hidden there earlier. He _knows_ about the Walls. Knows more than this pretentious windbag. Dick keeps going on about farming and clothing and how people inside the Walls lived _such a simple life._ No mention of the military. No mention of Historia, who probably lived to be the greatest Queen anyone every saw. No that Jean has knowledge of that. He... might not have made it that far. He _didn't_ make it that far. Fucking titans.

He moves with his class. The gathering of eighth graders huddle excitedly around one Wall related exhibit after another. Nothing on the structure of of the Walls. Or on what the titans were - _horrible monsters that appeared out of the night, their only desire to destroy mankind._ That all people know about titans anymore. They're all idiots. Shouldn't these kids be too old for the fairy stories surrounding the Walls? They are thirteen. But maybe that's the point. Give the kids the boring stuff - incorrect information about clothing and gender roles. Jean knows, _knew_ so many girls who would and could beat the shit out of everyone in the room. _Woman wore long skirts and dresses as a symbol of modesty. The took care of the household. Some became teachers, but most raised children at home or farmed. _Yeah, fuck that. Girls only wore skirts when they wanted to, generally when it was freezing. Jean's sisters used to tease him about being able to wear pants and skirts during the winter - just as they're starting to lose interest and cement a belief that the Walls were boring. Uninteresting. _  
_

The government is disgusting, allowing this. Why can't they just let people know? What's the harm?

Something metallic in one of the pristine glass cases catches his eye. Jean glances up from his phone. A tattered leather harness, straps broken, belt missing, wraps around a manikin. A single scabbard, rusted to the point of falling apart, leans precariously in its stand. No gas canisters. No swords. Jean would recognize it anywhere. The three dimensional maneuver gear.

The harness always left bruises. It hurt to walk that first day they used the gear. His feet were striped with blue-purple marks, his thighs and hips too. That was on top of the bruises left from training in the damned things. A missed shot and you fell. Crashed into the ground or a building or even another person. Muscles, unused to swinging around by a few cables, ached like no other for weeks.

He still remembers how to get everything on and off in less than a minute. Remembers how Shadis yelled at them for sleeping in the harnesses. Bad for the leather. Bad for the buckles.

"Remember when Eren fell on his face six times just trying to get up?" Marco asks with a chuckle, sliding up next to him.

Jean laughs. "It's one of my better memories of him," he replies, smirking. He leans a bit, knocking their shoulders together. "You should have seen him later though. Jerk got good. Course, he got private training from Levi - y'know, Humanity's Strongest?" Marco snorts, glancing at Jean from the corner of his eye.

Jean smiles. He catches Marco's reflection in the glass, taller than him and freckled and grinning. Sees Marco's body propped up against the side of a building. Half of his face is missing under the brighter reflection of a light.

He blinks. Blinks again. Turns with wide eyes to stare at his best friend. His dead best friend. Marco. Standing in front of him. Smiling. Marco. Grinning, alive, breathing, whole. Marco. Not dead. Not alone. He blinks, finds himself sitting on a cool tile floor. When did he sit down?

Marco crouches in front of him, grin fading into worried lines. "Jean? You okay?"

He might be. Now.

* * *

Wall Maria reeks. Not the long-dead corpses or the titans rumbling around fifty meters below, but the Wall. It smells of rot. Of decay. Of flesh moldering in the sewers. Only four of them stand on top of the Wall. Bruised and bloody, they cover their faces with scraps of jackets and shirts. Mikasa coughs violently into her arm. Eren can barely find the energy to look up, run a comforting hand down her side.

They just lost Levi.

Jean joins Armin standing at the edge. They stare down at Shiganshina in silence, observing the few titans roaming around destroyed houses. "It's been twenty-five years since I've last seen this place," the blonde man confides wearily. He looks drawn, pale. Tired. "I never really thought we'd get here."

"You got us here," Jean says. It's not a comfort. Not exactly.

Armin glances over. Something dark plays on his face. When they first met in training camp all those years ago, Jean never thought he'd see Armin wear such an expression. Then again, Jean thought he'd be going into the military police and that baby-faced Armin would disappear off to the wastelands. Weak and useless. Shows what a good judge of character Jean is, doesn't it?

"How's your gas?" Armin asks suddenly, straightening from his 's tapping at the silver canisters on his waist, frowning at whatever result he's receiving. Jean does the same. He's worryingly low and his spares ran out last week.

Eren calls over, "Nearly out!" as he lurches unsteadily to his feet. Mikasa is by his side in an instant. She reports her own lack of gas solemnly. The four of them survey the city. Impulsive as always, Eren shouts, "ReadysetJump!" and leaps off the Wall. Mikasa cries out, hand stretched forward as if her grab her wayward brother. Eren doesn't engage the gear until he's level with rooftops far below.

Armim lets out a strangled curse, but he looks resigned. "It's the best way down. Preserve your gas." Then he too is stepping off the ledge, Mikasa and Jean falling after him.


	21. Counting Sheep

**Late again. Sorry. I need sleep.**

Counting Sheep

It's not begging if he pretends to have won a free week at a camp on the other side of the country_._ Or, Eren doesn't think it is. He might beg to go to this camp thing, but really,"_Mom, _I won a contest! It'll be fully supervised be camp-people _and_ Levi and Erwin. Come on! I'm fifteen." Eren rolls his eyes, flopping carelessly into one of the uncomfortable kitchen chairs. The wooden back smacks painfully into his shoulders. "Armin and Mikasa are going."

His mother scowls. Apparently, Armin and Mikasa are not incentive. They never have been. Not really. She... tolerates them, sometimes, like a cat tolerates a dog breathing its air. Sometimes. She never outright aggressive with them, she just finds other things Eren _has_ to be doing right when the other two have time to visit. Erwin offers to drive them down for the weekend - Eren has a gymnastics tournament two towns over. Levi says he'll watch Eren for a few days during the summer and suddenly there is a family vacation planned. _We've been planning it for ages, Eren, don't you listen when we talk over dinner?_ _  
_

He does. They have never talked about vacation plans.

But this. This has to work. It's a free trip to a camp. A paid two-way ticket to the East Coast. Eren is volunteering to spend time with other kids his age, not just Mikasa and Armin. She can't say no.

"I don't think so, Eren." Well there goes that plan. Was there a step two? "I don't like the idea of you being so far away! What if you have another blackout?"

Currently, the doctors are under the assumption that Eren is suffering some form of seizure. He has all sorts of pills he's supposed to take at certain times and with (or without) certain foods. He hates to think what would happen if he couldn't heal. Liver failure, probably. That or he'd be insane. Doped up on the first wave of medications like Armin had been.

Granted, Armin's doctors are nowhere to be found anymore. Not even Erwin with his surprising computer hacking skills can worm out the imbeciles pretending to be doctors. Everyone in the know suspects foul play.

"I'd be fine!" Eren tries to assure. He schools his face into something between pleading and insulted. By his mother's expression, he missed. By a long shot. He aims for cajoling instead. "Please, Mom? It'd mean a lot to me. And you're always telling me to make more friends because Mikasa and Armin live so far away. This camp is for kids all around the country!"

She sighs. Not a defeated, unhappy, _fine but you own me_ sigh, but one of those exasperated sighs that mean _run for cover or you're grounded._ Damn. "What contest did you say you entered?"

"Uh, I didn't?" Apparently that was supposed to be step two. Now he knows why Levi was giving him a look when they talked about this last week. This lie. Because Kalura Jeager would never allow her son to go so far away in the company of her least favorite people. "I mean, I didn't say which contest I entered. It was..." he racks his brain, searching for something he knows enough about to fake without it being obvious to his mother. Something unexpected, but no too far fetched. "History."

"History?" If that isn't her incredulous face, he'll eat his shoes. It...kind of hurts that she doesn't know he's interested in history. He doesn't keep that secret. Even if the project itself is a lie, shouldn't she know how much history fascinates him? Look at all that has happened in around 1200 years. It certainly didn't take long for humans to spread out again.

Eren fidgets. His nails scrape quietly across the tabletop, eyes down. His mother busies herself at the sink behind him - washing or something. Letting the water run wastefully into the sink. "I wrote a report on the civilizations that came before the Walls." Something in his tone must bother her, because the water turns off and her hand rests on his shoulder. He shrugs it off. "The judges still have the project, but I have the notes."

He stands, chair scraping harshly on the floor, and sets off to the stairs. There were many times in the past when he wanted to know what his mother would think about him. About his choices. Now?

Everything Eren does is met with the same reaction his choice to join the scouting legion was met with when he was ten.

* * *

_**Senator Reiss' Daughter Hates Homosexuals**_

Under the headline is a picture of Krista, face set in a viscous snarl, punching a girl on the floor of what appeared to be her classroom. The article went on to describe the girl, a Ymir something-or-other, who got into the private school on scholarship. Not from the best part of town, but good in school. Not many friends. Despite being only eleven, she's _out. _Firmly. She's been declaring her love for girl since she was nine, or something. Her first day of school began and ended with Krista beating the crap out of her. Krista!

Krista who is obedient and kind and just... biddable.

For weeks the papers have been running with Krista being adopted. No one seemed to be able to choose whether or not that made him a family man - good for politics and his image - or just another sleazebag politician looking for a good in without having to do the work. Which is not true. Lod loves Krista. She's adorable and self-sufficient and doesn't hurt his career.

She does one thing. One. Thing. The papers are all over it. _Senator Reiss' daughter._ Because she messes up once and lets her personal feelings cloud her judgement - where did she learn to fight anyway? - and now. Now it's splashed across every major headline. _Children are often the most accepting of the homosexual community. What is Senator Reiss teaching his daughter is she can be so violent in her hatred?__  
_

It's bullshit.

Lod storms into his house, thunking his umbrella in the stand by the door. Security informs him that Krista is home and he's stomping across the living room before the guard even finishes his sentence. He doesn't remember descending the stairs or navigating through the nest of mats and sports equipment guarding his daughter's room. Her door bangs against the opposite wall when he opens it, mouth open to yell - inform her about the errors of her ways.

Two faces turn to face him, each as blank as the other, shoulders tense and eyes weary. Krista relaxes when she sees him, settling back against her abundance of pillows. Graceful. Regal. She doesn't really look like Krista right now which is disconcerting. The other girls doesn't move. Ymir something-or-other. The other girl from the fight. Krista touches her back with a foot.

"Relax. Ymir, this is Senator Lod Reiss. Father -" as always, the title sounds strained. Foreign - "this is Ymir. Why are you in my room?" She raises a pale eyebrow at him as Ymir folds herself into the pillows at her side.

Lod puffs himself up again. "Every news agency in the state has heard about your little spat," he grinds out. He tosses the paper at them. "I have been attempting damage control for the last three days."

Ymir looks at the paper and starts laughing, head thrown back as if Lod's career plummeting in the face of an upcoming election is the height of comedy. Krista glaces it over and snorts in amusement. "I do not have a problem with homosexuals. The press is pulling at strings," she states. "If you're holding another conference tomorrow Ymir and I can go and clean up your image." Then she dimples at him as if she's being gracious.

Something is wrong with her. He backs out of the room.

* * *

Eren grumbles at his phone. Grumbles at the computer. Grumbles at the lack of charger for either of them, but his parents weren't home yesterday so he took over downstairs in a giant blanket fort. It was cool, okay? Even if he's mentally forty-four, this body is ten and he's never made a blanket fort. Might as well act like a kid now that he has a chance. Of course, that means that his chargers are downstairs and he has a Skype call with the others in less than three minutes. Both his computer and phone are dying.

Groaning at the thought of stairs again - practice was unbearable today - Eren rolls off his bed, barely managing to catch his feet before his face tries to make friends with the carpet. As it turns out, the carpet does not like sudden visitors. He has learned this several times. Pain lances up his leg whenever he steps down. It's not too bad, but he's been breathing steam since the middle of practice. He might have taken a landing wrong and broken it. Compound fracture probably. It's just taking forever to heal. He probably needs more to eat.

Eren plods down the stairs, wincing. He collects the chargers from under the couch and meanders into the kitchen. No one has made dinner yet, but he's fairly certain there's leftover KFC hiding in the fridge. Only, there are people in the kitchen. His mother and father and an old man with a lot of hair. He blinks at them. There isn't really a way to edge around the kitchen table without drawing notice. All he wants is food.

"Eren!" His father beams, rising from the chair to usher the boy into the room. Eren casts a longing glance at the fridge. So close, yet so far. "Eren, I would like you to meet Marcel Karras. I'm going to be working with him for a while." Eren plays dutiful son, smiling and shaking hands with the stranger.

The old man crinkles his eyes, booming over how polite Eren is. "This is what we're trying to protect, Grisha," he exclaims. Personally, Eren thinks he sounds like a used car salesman. To each their own though. Eren is able to escape with the chicken without much hassle, claiming homework and a dire need to call his friends. Maybe not dire, but Levi and Mikasa will be on tonight. They've been without internet at a martial arts tournament for Mikasa. Texting and short phone calls have been their only means of communication.

Three years since the kidnapping and Eren has only been able to see his siblings roughly two dozen times. Weekend visits like Erwin promised, but it's never enough. He hates leaving, hates watching them leave. At least he's the only one left alone. Mikasa and Armin have each other and Levi and Erwin and Levi's squad. But he prefers his own isolation to that of his siblings. He'd go crazy knowing one of them was along and undefended. At least he can heal.

He plugs in the computer and his phone, answering Armin's impatient texts with something along the lines of, "Just a sec, there are too many wires." Which, there are a lot of wires. In an age where everything is supposedly wireless, his parents are the annoying type that won't get him the best. They think he'll break it or something. Eren disagrees. It'd be a lot easier if he didn't have to worry about the mouse wire tangling with the charging cables and his headphones while the headset he uses for Skype coils around everything like a snake. A scrawny blue snake. He pulls and tugs, pawing at the _accept call_ button that pops up even as he slips the headset over his ear.


	22. Not the Same

Not the Same

They're doing that thing where they don't talk about it. Where Reiner sits with his back against a tree, his head in his hands, and struggles just to breathe. If she weren't Annie, the blonde girl would probably be lounging in the branches like a jungle cat - also not talking about it. Bertolt is several meters away checking gas levels and gear, watching to make sure their food doesn't burn and generally paying more attention to the mission than either of the other two. He is not talking about it in a way that suggests he's angry or doesn't care. Reiner would prefer the former. Angry, at least, can be directed at the situation and not a him specifically. Not caring...

They've been friends since they were kids, Reiner an Bert. Just barely out of toddler-hood when the man came into town, rounded up a bunch of kids, and injected them with titan serum. Not all the kids survived. Reiner, Bert, Annie, a couple of others. The man decided that Reiner and Bert would be partners in some plan of his. They went through training together, fought together, played together. They were inseparable. The idea that Bertolt is not talking about because he doesn't care anymore is - it's hard.

One breath in. One breath out. _Soldiers fight to protect humanity._ He is a soldier. Part of the Queen's army. Under the command of Captain Armin Arlert. He is a soldier. One breath in. One breath out.

Annie raps her knuckles on the back of his head. She is not gentle. "Food's up," she offers, face blank and _still not talking about it _as she strolls over to where Bert is scooping... something edible into the metal bowls. Or, Reiner thinks it's edible. It looks something like a cross between porridge and a watery stew with various bits of rabbit meat tossed in. Not particularly appetizing. He stands up anyway and accepts his bowl. Food is food. Out here with limited supplies you eat what is available and hope not to attract the attention of the feral ones. Last week they were eating raw squirrel and moderately ripe berries. Porridge stew is a considerable improvement.

Reiner offers a half smile to his friend and joins Annie in slurping the mess from the bowl.

* * *

Maybe he doesn't notice at first. Maybe he's too busy drifting through the transition of being dead and suddenly awake that he can't spare the mental energy to notice. Maybe it takes him most of a year before it finally clicks.

Maybe he is not going to be telling that to anyone. Ever.

Because Reiner does not wake up to an unfamiliar language and painfully familiar - but very wrong - faces. Or, he does, but that isn't the important part. When he's not just awake, but aware of what is going on, he already knows the language and that he should be calling these people _mom_ and _dad_ and _sister._ He spent most of a year drifting in a haze of not-quite-there where is body responded and his mind took a rain check on reality. _  
_

The problem is - the problem is that Reiner, that when he wakes up - well. He's almost five when he becomes aware again. He's almost five and wearing some frilly pink thing that itches where it bunches around his legs and tights like he's seen on the rich and a light purple shirt that has sparkly things glued to it. He's kneeling on the carpet - also some absurd shade of pink - holding a doll. His hair is long and pulled painfully back into a braid. But that's okay. He can roll with that. Maybe, before he woke up, he was just a weird kid. He doesn't know what kids are like here.

Wherever here is. Or, whenever. Because some of the stuff in the room make very little sense even though he knows the names to them.

It isn't until he goes to the bathroom that he notices something wrong. Or, maybe not wrong, but missing?

Either way, his penis isn't there.

* * *

Reiner grips the end of the sword. His mind blurs. It's a struggle to keep his thoughts straight, too easy to stray from _protect Jeager_ to _capture Jeager. Get to the Wall_ is only a sidestep away from _destroy the Wall._ He tries not to think about it. He tries to follow Arlert's orders and destroy the titans clawing their way towards the group. He _tries_.

He's not very successful.

"Protect humanity," Bertolt told him, crushed under the foot of an evaporating shell of a titan. Annie left, shifted, took off running and bleeding and pouring steam like a giant beacon. Abandoned Bert and Reiner to a hoard of mostly destroyed titans and the remains of Arlert's little group of hooligans. The middle of a fight and Reiner found the time to crouch over his drying friend, frantically pawing at a too-wide expanse torn flesh. He ignored the fast-healing burns on his hands in favor of pressing evaporating blood back into the hallow cavity of Bert's lower abdomen. His legs were missing. He wasn't healing fast enough.

Bertolt surged up, bloodied hand grasping Reiner's face, pulling until they were inches apart. He's frantic, eyes wide, face pale, shaking from blood-loss and pain and who knew what else. Blood coated his lips. It dragged down his chin in a horrible parody of the titans around them. He swallowed convulsively and Reiner, steady for once and helpless, could do nothing but brace them.

"Promise me," Bert gargled. He coughed, blood sprayed from his mouth and across Reiner's face. The blonde flinched at the proof of his friend's injuries. Why wasn't he healing? He was so used to healing. "Promise me. Protect. Don't follow - him. Stay - with Jeager. Scouts. Protect humani-" Bert's voice, weakened with each word, faded until his mouth moved and no sound came out. His grip loosened. Reiner's arms around his chest kept the brunette from falling into a heap in the red mud around them.

Reiner pulled his friend tight against him, ear pressed to the broken chest, listening for the _thump-thump-thump _of a heartbeat. Only, it sounded like a clock winding down. A thump. Several seconds and another thump. "I promise," he whispered. Maybe Bert heard him. Maybe he didn't._  
_

The heartbeat stopped.

Reiner's mind is like that sound. A skittering jump and he's solid, but a stray thought has him somewhere else. Stopped. Promise broken. The taste of Bertolt's blood in his mouth like a bite taken from his friend for every human killed when he's not himself. Not he self he wants to be.

He doesn't know why they haven't killed him yet. He's a bigger security risk then Jeager ever was. Every second it a chance he'll lose control. Stop being the soldier and become a warrior desperate to follow the orders of an absent general. They should have killed him as soon as he god back. As soon as it became clear that he's not always going to be the one in charge of the shift. Arlert should have made the call. He's capable of that now. Not like when they were kids, restless and scared after that first battle.

Reiner grips the blade tighter. He can _feel_ himself slipping. The others are just inside. Sleeping. Peaceful. The urge to shift and crush them all, grab the coordinate and run back to base leaps up like an overeager dog. Rabid. Feral. He's as bad as the feral ones.

Above him, the stars glitter. A milky stripe slashes across the thick expanse of cold lights. Billions of them. From their light alone he is able to see the shine of the blade, the murky dark of grass beneath his feet. He's able to see well enough to walk away from the building serving as camp for the night. With the stars as witness he plunges the blade into his own stomach - again and again, twisting, tearing, ripping, swallowing his screams until the healing is overwhelmed, his insides soup and leaking over the not-green grass and the last of his energy, strength, goes into dragging the blade over, through his throat.

* * *

Maybe it's the not talking part the hurts the most. Bert and Annie didn't talk about it when he was losing his mind. His parents don't talk about it when he insists on being called Reiner. His sister casts him odd looks some days. The closest she gets to talking about it is when she tell him, "You told me your name was Reyna yesterday." He doesn't remember that.

He finds that he doesn't remember a lot of things.

He doesn't talk about it.


	23. Mockingbird

Annie runs. But it's more than running. She dragging, her form disintegrating around her, crystal shedding in clumps and shattering upon hitting the ground. Around her, titans swarm and she's slow. Too slow. Unable to do anything about it. Left Bertolt dying, unable to shift, days behind. Saved her life. He saved her. Allowed to to run. Needs to keep running.

The titans attack a couple of hours after dawn. A whole hoard of them popping from buildings Armin and the other swore were clear the night before. They attacked everyone. Ten scouts fall before anyone knows what is happening. Annie shifts as soon as she's outside, lightning encasing her at the transfer of energy, titan form _growinggrowinggrowing_ until she towers over the smallest ones. Three of the ten meter class turn to attack her. She stinks if human, of violence, of not titan and they tear off chunks of her new body before she dispatches them. She charges into the fray beside Eren. The Rogue spares only a moment to growl at her, a crystal sheen providing light armor for bulging muscles. She shrieks back at him, vocal cords not designed for deeper sounds. They dive into the fight side by side.

She runs at night. Feels the ache of power lost. No sun to provide strength but she can't stop. It's the only time she isn't under attack. The other titans fall back. Powerless. Static. She can't use the time to rest, to heal. To find human shape under the twist of melting flesh she once called a second skin. They already tried, pinned her down and ate out the back of her neck until she was left weak and exposed. Bertolt showed up, the great idiot. Flashing in and _not shifting_. Pinned himself in one feral's mouth. Exploded. Shrunk back to normal size and did it again and again until one of the damn things caught him and Annie, frozen, not healing, could only watch as it steps down. Too late Reiner flew in, slashed it down. And Annie ran.

"Come with me," the Messenger whispered in her ear, one far away night. Child hands braced themselves on her face. She _recognized _ those eyes. Those stupid fucking eyes that she had no need, no right, no desire to recognize. Everything else was wrong. The others were young, but not this young. "I'll take you to your father. I know where he is. Leave the survey corp and come with me." He said other things. More things. Unimportant things that garbled when she couldn't take it anymore and tore into him with her sword. Chopped him up, such a small thing, until he was no more than an unidentifiable pile of meat and gore splashed in a dark alley.

She is going to die. She's been feeling it for days, a creep of poison - exhaustion and blood-loss and the constant _biteriptear_ of the titans dogging her heels. She knew she was going to die when Eren left her buried under a seething knot of blood-gorged titans. So desperate was he to rush to Mikasa's side where she was cornered. Not that Annie ever ranked high on his protect list. She did him one better. Took the chance and escaped the corp and Armin's team and Levi's dead stare. Abandoned them all to find that promise the Messenger made.

Her father.

In the distance, her old village rises out of the mist. Golden and whole it shines, shrouded only by the fog. A light fog. It always settled in their little nook for a few hours before the sun reached a height to burn it off. When she was little, Annie would wake up early, before training, before the boys, and play, swirling around, only coming inside once she was soaked through with dew.

Her father is there. He has to be. Because the only thing she wants is to die in his arm. Be his baby girl just once. Not a monster. Not a killer. Just a little girl scared of the dark. And the dark is closing in.

Behind her a steady _thudthump_ of running feet. Titans awoken. Running, chasing. She can make it - only, she's flagging. Falling. Her hands, too large, reach out, evaporating faster than the mist. One blink and she's staring from huge eyes, the next and she's herself again. Half sucked into titan skin, too hot, burning with fever she's never lived. Stretched skin raw and legs immobile even when she pushes, desperate, just a little further. Her village it so close. A hundred feet. She can make it. She has to.

But she's still. Hands outstretched, reaching, yearning. Lifted up. Torn in half. Bitten. Gulped down.

Just a little girl who's scared of the dark.

* * *

Annie blinks awake in front of a flashing box, images of a talking...something playing out. It's too loud. And the words don't make sense. And - are they under water? Why is there a squirrel under water? She is fairly certain that squirrels cannot breathe under water. But who knows.

Also, she's small, her hair is tangled, her shirt is on backwards, and her socks don't match. Annie removes her thumb from her mouth. That was a habit she kicked early in life, and she will not give into it here. Not in this weird situation.

Later, she'll learn about this body'd Spongebob obsession. Later, she'll learn how to speak again and how to adapt to life. But just for now she finds a quiet corner to curl up in. _Surveys_ her surroundings. She doesn't remember and she doesn't cry. Not even when a man who looks like her father picks her up, deposits her is a strange woman's arms, and starts making breakfast.

* * *

She taps her fingers in time with an invisible metronome against the blacktop near _her _tether ball poll. All the kids know it belongs to her. No one goes near it even when she's not around.

They're scared of her.

Annie doesn't really understand that. She's never done anything to the kids. Sure, she never made friends with them, but she didn't hit them or yell at them. Other kids preferred time alone as well. Annie can't get time alone at school without being seen as a pariah. But every gaggle of brats needs an out-lire, needs someone to hate. Back in the 104th it had been Sasha. Then Eren when he started getting mouthy. Then one of the weaker kids, but never Armin Arlert because that kid had Mikasa and Eren glued to his sides. No one messed with Armin. Now, here, at this school, Annie is the freak. She reads a lot. She doesn't play. She's always quiet.

She pretends she can't hear them whisper about her behind her back. Kids don't know how to whisper now. Everyone where she grew up knew how to be silent, how to not attract attention. Every loud noise here makes her think she's going to be swarmed (again) by titans.

"Annie?" a soft, little girl voice breathes, shock quiet. Annie looks up in time to see an unfamiliar blonde girl fall on her butt a few feet away. Or, not unfamiliar? Something about the shape of her face and the set of her eyes makes Annie think she might have known this girl. "Annie, that's you, right? Please tell me I'm not going crazy again."

Again.

Oh.

Part of her feels like laughing because this is _Reiner_. Annie recognizes him now. Remember the shape of his face and awkward limbs from a childhood spent training to fight. And maybe it was one of her more flighty desires, but she always wanted to see what Reiner would look like as a girl. (It's possible that when they were little, Annie had to beat a healthy respect for girls into him.) But not now. Not since he stopped remember some things and then flipped things around to being the kid she remembered evacuating with. Not since the guilt drove him crazy.

Annie reaches over and punches his arm. "Hey Reiner."

They don't talk about it.

* * *

Mockingbird

Annie twitches awake when the front door opens, closes, and opens again. She crawls out of bed, one hand still wrapped around a bear, and edges out of her room. The hallway is dark. She steps carefully, keeping up a silent grumble about cousins leaving legos strewn all over the carpet. Those things are the devil. She is fairly certain.

One of the living room lights is on, as well as the kitchen light. Neither are so bright as to disturb the bedroom, but Annie blinks rapidly when the light hits her eyes. Her father standing at the kitchen table. He's frowning heavily, his shoulders slumped as if balancing the weight of the world.

"Dad?" she asks. And maybe she sounds small. Young. Deciding to embrace this second childhood might be more trouble than it's worth.

He looks up, startled, quickly wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "Oh, um, hey kiddo. What are you doing up?" He tries to smile but it turns out wobbly. Wet.

She chooses the first answer she can think of that isn't a hyper-vigilance playing cards with her nightmares. "Looking for presents." Annie lifts her arms in a classic _up_ pose. Her father obliges, scooping her up and plopping her on the table.

"Only one, and don't tell your mommy, k?" he says with another not-smile. Annie frowns at him when he turns to dig through one of the cupboards. She's smiling when he returns, a bright green and pink present set on her lap.

With all the abandon of childhood, Annie tears through the wrapping, reducing it to shreds within second. Inside a little velvet box is a necklace, her name scrawled in tiny red stones as the charm. "Thank you.

Only, when she looks up he isn't there. The house is empty.


End file.
